


The Redemption of Eden

by ImprobableDreams900



Series: Eden!verse [8]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A surprising amount of religious and political commentary, Action/Adventure, Angel Crowley, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Car Accidents, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Eden - Freeform, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Healthy Relationships, Heaven, Hell, Heresy, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, LGBTQ+ Themes, M/M, Midfarthing, Mild Language, Multi, Philosophy, Polyamory, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Torture, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, Wedding, Wings, but not in A/C, like buckets of it, lots and lots of plot, relationship drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-08-20 05:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 198,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16550093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/pseuds/ImprobableDreams900
Summary: It was, in every respect, a perfect happy ending.…And then there was the Tree.Other angels, both Fallen and not, would be the flames of the fire of Redemption, but everything hinged on the perfect spark.





	1. Prologue: The Vicars of Midfarthing

**Author's Note:**

> So my plan was to end this series with _The Inheritance of Eden_ , but then I had some fabulous ideas for a sequel and couldn’t resist the temptation to write one last time in this world I love so much. But HOLY HELL is it a long one! Welcome to the only thing I accomplished this summer. :D
> 
> If you need a refresher of what happened in the rest of the Eden!verse, you can read some handy little summaries of the earlier fics [here](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/159960726218/edenverse-masterpost). There are a bunch of other goodies at that link too (art, diagrams, etc.), so be sure to check it out!
> 
> There'll be a new chapter up every day.

 

[[on tumblr](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/179860417863/redemption-comes-for-us-all-read-my-new-ficand)]

 

In 1990, the world ended.

Or, it tried to.

God watched events from a distance, unwilling to interfere in the free will of His creations. He had seen this moment coming from millennia ago, and His resolution to remain on this path of history was unwavering.

The Apocalypse was the product of events thousands of years in the making, but it was not the culmination of those events; that moment would not arrive for another two decades. Nevertheless, it was an important lynchpin—the first such lynchpin in a series of incredibly pivotal events—so God watched anxiously from afar, nervous to witness one of the moments He had been waiting for since the Fall of the angels.

God was omniscient, so presumably He had nothing to be worried about, but free will was a funny old thing. When looking far into the future, God could see broad strokes of events that might come to pass, but the finer points eluded Him. The trouble was, the compounding of a near-infinite number of tiny, everyday details created a near-infinite number of possible outcomes within as short a period as twenty-four hours, meaning that even the near future held an element of chance. Usually these tiny details—a spotted tie instead of a striped tie here, a spilled cup of coffee there—had no impact on the larger strokes, but God was not in a position to bet on that not being the case today, at such a critical moment. So He watched closely and fretted.

There were a few small deviations from the original vision God had seen, caused by small, spontaneous decisions made by His creations, but the outcome was the same. The Antichrist refused to comply with the wishes of the divine and infernal agents, Earth was not destroyed, and the Metatron and Beelzebub retracted their statements of war and returned to their respective homes. But most crucially of all, Aziraphale and Crowley returned to London unharmed and even closer friends than they had been before.

As divine and infernal meddling in the affairs of man cooled down, Crowley began to spend more time at the bookshop, inspired by his recent brush with the end of the world to act more frequently upon the affection he felt towards Aziraphale.

God looked ahead to the events to come and knew that surviving the Apocalypse had been positively child’s play by comparison. There were so many moving parts, so many decisions that needed to be made and remade, and so many tiny acts of random happenstance with the potential to throw the entire Plan off the rails.

God had banked six millennia of human life on the success of His Plan, and didn’t like to imagine what would happen if something went wrong. He had sworn not to interfere in His creations’ exercise of free will, but much of what they did was not wilful at all. The choosing of a tie pattern was wilful enough, if thoughtless, but the spilling of a cup of coffee could be caused by an uneven bit of ground, a stray bit of clothing, or a clumsy hand. Surely interfering in such small, random occurrences would not be an infringement upon His oath?

After three years of considering and reconsidering the question, God decided that it was not, and He would never forgive Himself if a spilled cup of coffee caused the eternal damnation of all of humanity. That just didn’t seem very fair to anyone.

It was somewhat difficult to oversee such small details from afar, though, so God decided He needed to be a little closer to the action.

In 1993, God walked into a small village in southwestern England called Midfarthing.

It was a charming little village, with narrow streets bordered by short, ivy-covered stone walls, orderly brick houses fronted by well-pruned gardens, and a weathered obelisk-shaped memorial to the Great War in the centre island of the sole roundabout. It was everything a charming English village ought to be, and God thought that it was good.

He knew that He needed to find a place where He could keep a weather eye out while laying low. A few of the villagers would be quite important in the events to come, and He would have to take extra care to avoid pushing them onto other paths. Perhaps, God mused, it would be easiest if He simply displaced a single person, someone who had practically no influence on the coming events and whom Aziraphale and Crowley would go out of their way to avoid interacting with.

And then God had an idea.

There was a single human in Midfarthing whose affairs God could conceivably meddle in, someone who had already pledged his life to His service. And was it really breaking His vow if the man had already professed voluntarily that he was in God’s employ?

The man in question was the vicar of the village’s parish church, a young priest by the name of Oswald Osbert Osprey. His parents hadn’t been particularly kind when naming him or at any point thereafter. His father was a short-tempered working man and his mother had died of a respiratory tract infection when he was eleven. Such an unfortunate upbringing would have caused most to turn away from religion—and God could hardly blame them—but not Oswald. He had sworn to be better than his parents, and to be a force for good in a world that had only ever treated him with scorn.

He had finished seminary two years ago, and this was his first call. The parish was small enough, and more experienced clergymen few enough, that he had been appointed to the post of vicar with limited supervision. He made small mistakes in the services, and though his sermons were sometimes flustered his heart was always in them, and he made real attempts to connect with his parishioners. Unfortunately, the villagers sensed his inexperience like an instructor senses which kids are the troublemakers in a new class, and they took everything he said with a grain of salt.

Oswald had learned much from his time in Midfarthing, but it would do him good to move on to another parish, perhaps a slightly larger one where he could benefit from the oversight of another priest until he had found his sea legs. There was such a parish in Suffolk, and they would be happy to have the extra help. All that remained was to deliver the news to Oswald. God didn’t imagine this would be any trouble; the man went where God called him, after all, and right now God was calling him to Suffolk.

So God strolled into Midfarthing one warm Tuesday afternoon with a clerical collar around His neck and a thoroughly dutiful expression on His face. He took the scenic route into the village, taking His time admiring the cottages and hedges He had previously seen only in His mind’s eye.

As He strolled past a particularly lovely brick building with wood facing, He recognised it as the village’s pub. Its proprietor, God knew, would play a significant role in His Plan.

God hesitated for a moment and then detoured towards the pub. If He was going to live here as a human, He supposed, He might as well start by introducing Himself to those of His creations He would be living alongside.

The interior of the pub did not betray its charming exterior; thick wooden beams ran along the ceiling and dark panelling covered the walls, the latter peppered with small chips and dents caused by over a century’s worth of careless patrons. The bar, a well-loved wooden counter framed by a small forest of beer tap handles, sat near the back of the space.

God strode past the square dining tables and up to the bar, seeing with delight that the barman He’d been looking for was inspecting the levels of the spirits stacked on shelves on the back wall behind the bar.

“Hello there!” God said cheerfully as He approached.

Bertrand Marley turned at His voice, a bottle of Scotch in one hand and a pencil in the other.

“One mo,” Bert—as God knew he preferred to be called—said, setting the bottle of Scotch back on its shelf and making a note of something on a pad of paper he’d propped up nearby.

He turned back a moment later and gave God a friendly smile, eyes flicking briefly down to His clerical collar. “Can I get you anything, Reverend?”

“Ah, just introducing myself,” God said, extending a hand. “Reverend Osprey will be transferring to Suffolk, and the diocese appointed me as his replacement.”

“Really?” Bert asked, shaking the hand of his creator. “Well, we’ll be happy to have you. I’m Bert Marley, proprietor of this fine establishment.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” God only barely bit off an enigmatic statement about Bert’s interesting future, reminding Himself sternly that He was supposed to be limiting His interferences.

After a moment, He realised that Bert was still looking at Him, and it took Him another moment, omniscience or not, to realise that the barman was expecting to hear His name in return.

“Go—uh—” God said, the thought occurring to Him that He really should have invested some time in thinking of a suitable alias. He fished around for a name, a proper human name, and latched onto the first one that sprang to mind. “B—Bert—” _Damn, that’s his name, we can’t both be Bert—_

God was still struggling to pass off His fumble as an unfortunate cough when Bert spoke.

“Gilbert?”

“Uh—yes,” God said quickly. “Yes, Gilbert. Father Gilbert, actually.”

“Do you prefer ‘Father’ over ‘Reverend’?” Bert asked, looking honestly curious.

“Oh,” God—well, Father Gilbert now, he supposed; he might as well play the part—said, “I just thought it was more appropriate.”

“Well, welcome to Midfarthing, Father Gilbert,” Bert said. “First pint’s on me.”

 

~~***~~

 

When an injured Crowley and mortal Aziraphale arrived in Midfarthing two years later, Father Gilbert was among the first to greet them. Crowley told him to stuff it and dragged Aziraphale away to another table at the cafe. Father Gilbert figured he probably had it coming.

He wanted to give them a hint, some clue that everything would turn out for the best, but he knew that such a comment could easily lead to disaster. Instead, he kept his distance, staying close enough to make sure that no metaphorical cups of coffee spilled but focussing his attention on enjoying himself while he could.

As his first order of business, he observed Crowley making arrangements to close out his Mayfair flat, including instructions to get rid of his plants but “keep them all together.” This seemed like a perfectly harmless area to interfere in, so Father Gilbert took a day trip to London, happened upon Crowley’s building, and offered to take the plants off their hands. The hassled-looking man who had been appointed the task of cleaning out Crowley’s very few possessions was all too happy to part with them. Father Gilbert took them back to Midfarthing and lined them up next to the broadest window in the vicarage. They were clearly terrified of him, the poor things, but Father Gilbert was sure they’d calm down with a little kindness and care.

Father Gilbert decided that, even if he had hung up the mantle of God for now, that didn’t mean he couldn’t still be a good Father, and to more than just Crowley’s unfortunate plants. Displacing Oswald Osprey hadn’t proved any great feat, and replacing him was turning out to be an absolute adventure. For one thing, the Good Book his name was repeatedly attached to seemed to have a number of rather serious reporting errors.

“Did I—did God really say that? I don’t think that’s right. I think they wrote it down wrong.”

“‘In the same way also the men, giving up natural intercourse with women, were consumed with passion for one another. Men committed shameless acts with men and received in their own persons the due penalty for their error.’ Okay, but Paul wrote that, and Paul…well, let me tell you, he was well-intentioned but not exactly forward-thinking and he didn’t really _understand_ what I—er—what God was trying to say.”

“Really, how did _Leviticus_ even get in here? Since when is human law divine law?”

“‘I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man, she must be silent.’ Paul, again, please, stop putting words in God’s mouth. I’m sure He doesn’t appreciate it.”

“I’m not even going to talk about _Song of Solomon_. Just. Don’t talk to me about it.”

By the end of the month, Father Gilbert was the talk of the village. In his second month of this new approach, he attracted a larger congregation than Oswald had managed on any day that wasn’t a major church holiday. Many were outraged at the admittedly somewhat flippant tone of his sermons, but others made a habit of returning to the quaint little stone church for the first time in decades to hear the unusual perspective preached by their new Father.

Early in his fourth month, he was paid a visit first by the archdeacon, and then by the Bishop of Worcester.

“Gilbert,” Bishop John Igness, a generally friendly-looking man currently wearing a worried expression, said, “I’ve been hearing some very troubling things.”

“Really?” Father Gilbert asked, setting a slow pace for their stroll down the narrow side aisle in Midfarthing’s church, the motes of dust in the air dancing in the coloured sunlight slanting through the nave windows.

“Most troubling,” Bishop Igness confirmed delicately. “I understand that you’ve been advancing most…unorthodox views on the Gospels. Pelagianism, universal salvation as posited by Origen—it is not _done_.”

“You don’t believe in free will?”

The bishop let out a slow breath. “You are speaking heresies, Gilbert, as you very well know. And worse yet are the reports that you have been putting words into God’s mouth. You cannot speak for the Lord.”

“No?”

Bishop Igness stopped walking and took a fortifying breath. “Gilbert, if you continue with this recklessness we will have no choice but to remove you. It is the lightest sentence we could offer.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Right Reverend,” Father Gilbert said with a kind smile, reaching out and patting the bishop on the elbow. He was finding he really had no problem with interfering with the clergy when necessary. “Nothing is amiss here, no matter what you might hear. It is the Lord’s work.” He paused, making sure the suggestion had settled in. “And I mean, _really_ , a lot of this isn’t what I _meant_.”

~~***~~

 

The years turned into a decade, and Father Gilbert continued preaching his particular brand of heretical madness at the little Midfarthing parish church. No one else from the diocese ever came to check in on him, since it was clear to them that nothing was amiss in Midfarthing, and the Lord’s work was being done.

Father Gilbert’s interactions with Crowley and Aziraphale were minor at best, though whenever they happened upon each other in the small village he would give them some kind words of hope, though he knew they always brushed him off: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart;” “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil;” and so on.

Whenever Crowley was looking particularly despondent, Father Gilbert abandoned his usual tactic and offered light-hearted jokes concerning ancient history, the sorts of things only someone who had lived through the period would really appreciate. These did seem to lift Crowley’s spirits for a moment, though afterwards he always scowled; it appeared that Crowley had decided on his opinion of Father Gilbert some time ago, and wasn’t willing to stray from it anytime soon.

As the years crept on, Father Gilbert found himself in the village’s gossip circle, where he listened with amusement to the villagers’ speculations about the strange pair living in the cottage on Somerset Lane. The fact that Crowley didn’t seem to age particularly fascinated them, and was the source of much jealousy. As the apparent age gap between the demon and his mortal friend widened, the talk shifted, with Faye Uphill positing that Crowley had always been much younger, and perhaps he was merely milking Aziraphale for his money. This seemed a suitably nefarious plan for the man who ruthlessly terrorised the grocer’s staff, but Bert and Donnie both raised objections, stating that they were sure that, whatever the exact nature of the pair’s relationship, it was clearly mutual and equitable. Harper protested all this talk of relationships, saying that he was sure they were related somehow, or else just very close friends. Bert told him to put his money where his mouth was, and a betting pool quickly formed. Father Gilbert, who felt his omniscience meant he couldn’t gamble in good faith, excused himself on the basis of his being a clergyman.

Father Gilbert continued his hobby of fishing, which he had picked up soon after arriving in Midfarthing, and found that he enjoyed it very much. He was particularly bad at catching anything, but that wasn’t why he indulged in the hobby. It was mostly to remind himself to resist the temptation to meddle more directly. Hard times were coming for Crowley and Aziraphale, and, though he had got away so far with dangling his hook in the water, if he ever caught anything—if his stray comments to Crowley ever made it past the demon’s wall of dislike and disregard—he could inadvertently destroy the future he had worked so hard to create.

So he held his tongue as the years stretched on. He continued fishing and preaching, hoping to improve the lives of the villagers while he was here. And he continued making his jokes about Babylon and Ur and Thebes whenever Crowley and Aziraphale were within earshot. Of everyone in the village, only Crowley and Aziraphale got them, and then only Crowley did.

 

~~***~~

 

Father Gilbert was called upon to officiate the funeral.

Despite the rain, nearly everyone in the village was in attendance, from Oscar the postman and Faye Uphill in her giant black sun hat to Bert and Harper, the former stoic-faced and the latter appearing crushed. The rain peppered the forest of black umbrellas, making a sombre backdrop for Father Gilbert’s words.

“Ambrose was a friend to us all,” he said, looking out over the sea of faces for the person who needed to hear his words the most, but of course Crowley wasn’t there. “His life was long and full, but he will have a new beginning in Heaven, under the eyes of the angels.”

It wasn’t long before Bert began to look quite choked up, Harper clinging tightly to the hand of his wife, Mara.

“They say that Heaven is a _better_ place,” Father Gilbert continued, “but you all know I do not like to agree with what people say about religion. I will withhold judgment on whether it is _better_ , but certainly it is a _different_ place, the eternal home for all human souls. I’m sure Ambrose Ziraphale is looking down on us all today.”

Sometimes Father Gilbert wondered if he took things a bit too far.

 

~~***~~

 

Nearly a year later, after Crowley had torn out his feathers in Father Gilbert’s church and begged for the opportunity to take Aziraphale’s place, Adam arrived in Midfarthing and was the one to finally explain everything to Crowley, who, needless to say, had been taking the loss of his friend very hard.

Father Gilbert stood with his grandson on the pier jutting out over the small pond on the village’s edge and watched the last traces of divinity vanish into the sky as Crowley finally sought his friend in the Heavenly home that was his lot.

Several months later, Bert received an urgent phone call and left the country, leaving behind a somewhat distressed Donnie only weeks before their wedding. She was a strong-willed woman under all of the lace and cats, but Father Gilbert could tell that Bert’s departure worried her. Though her and her first husband’s parting had been mutual, the chance of a repeat performance seemed somewhat larger than it had before. Father Gilbert dropped by her B&B often to provide some conversation and assurances that Bert was certainly all right and would only have left if there had been an emergency.

Bert, meanwhile, wound up in Hell and walked back out unscathed. Crowley and Aziraphale had already escaped Heaven, broken into Eden, and retrieved a peach from the Tree of Life, and Father Gilbert watched with bated breath as the gears that had started turning with Crowley’s return to divinity began to slowly spin faster. Popular opinion was changing, and quickly, and it held that perhaps the damned weren’t so damned after all.

Father Gilbert had waited for these particular dominoes to fall for so long that it seemed almost as though it wasn’t really happening. It was all as he had seen it, in the Beginning; finally, the mistake Venus and Ishtyr had made so long ago could be corrected.

It seemed certain that one of the last few events in the sequence would go awry; it was almost unthinkable that everything should go as planned. But Crowley died as God had seen that he would, and Death arrived to collect him. Except that Death couldn’t reap him, because the lovesick Crowley had given Aziraphale part of his soul and unwittingly received an equal piece of Aziraphale’s freshly immortal soul in return.

Death played his part perfectly, recognising the opportunity God had told him would one day come and sending Crowley back to the world of the living with a message for Lucifer. And Crowley—beautiful, _wonderful_ Phanuel, upon whom all of God’s hopes rested—bore the message to Hell as directed. Before the day was up, it had reached the ears of its recipient—a recipient who had once gone by the name of Venus, as Death had once gone by Ishtyr.

The message was a simple one of forgiveness, but it was the only thing capable of breaking through the walls Lucifer had put around himself. The Morningstar had built his kingdom upon the spite and anger he felt towards a Father who hadn’t been able to save his friend Ishtyr from annihilation, but God had in fact ensured that Ishtyr survived in the form of Death. And if God had indeed saved Ishtyr, then Lucifer hadn’t been wronged.

The wheels of change were already in motion in Heaven, and here was the last, frightfully important little push for those in Hell. And as Lucifer’s heart thawed for the first time in millennia, the final wheel turned over.

God’s Plan—ineffable to all others, six thousand years in the making—was finally complete.

 

~~***~~

 

Father Gilbert didn’t know what to do with himself.

Aziraphale, Crowley, and Bert returned from their adventure, exhausted and all looking forward to spending some time sitting around and avoiding anything remotely stressful. Father Gilbert, who had watched every moment with the fear that something would go wrong at any moment, joined them, thinking that this was a splendid new Plan, at least for now.

He had barely started relaxing when Crowley and Aziraphale turned up on his doorstep with a brown pellet in a Ziploc bag. Against all odds, they had brought _him_ the peach pit from the fruit of the Tree of Life. The irony was not lost on Father Gilbert, though it was on Crowley and Aziraphale, who seemed exceptionally concerned that he look after it.

He saw them again not long after, grinning like idiots at Bert and Donnie’s very belated wedding. After the service, he made sure to give Crowley a small potted plant he had brought with him. It was a token of his thanks and also a way of returning to Crowley what was his—the plant was a descendant of Crowley’s original collection from Mayfair, the one that Father Gilbert had rescued and looked after. Father Gilbert also took the opportunity to shake the hand of his brave seraph and thank him for all that he had done.

It was clear that Crowley hadn’t the faintest idea what he was going on about, but Father Gilbert figured that was probably for the best.

And then the days spooled into months which spooled into years, and the gears in Heaven and Hell continued to turn. There were some areas of friction, angels and demons who resisted the new concept that all in Hell might one day be saved, but they would come to see the goodness of it in time; it was no matter.

In Midfarthing, Aziraphale and Crowley settled down together, properly living together now, not just sharing the same space. Harper and Mara’s child was born and christened Henry Ambrose, a name chosen after its partial namesake had left this world for Heaven. Bert and Donnie moved in together as well and practiced being the cutest old married couple around. Oscar the postman won several awards for flowers Crowley helped him grow and was consulted on a horticulture book published by the Royal Horticultural Society. Harper made it onto _The Great British Bake Off_ , where he made amazing cakes and pastries but was eliminated when the judges said the shells of his cannoli weren’t crispy enough. Walter Jamieson left prison a (somewhat) changed man and decided to go ply his shady business deals somewhere where they didn’t know his face. Since Jamieson wouldn’t be needing it anymore, Crowley bought the old bank building and helped Aziraphale convert it into a bookshop where it was strictly against the rules to buy anything.

It was, in every respect, a perfect happy ending.

 

~~***~~

 

And then there was the Tree.

It was a singularly peculiar thing, this Tree growing behind the tombstone in Midfarthing marked “A. Ziraphale.” It had grown from a peach pit, but it had taken its nutrients from the soil of the Earth, an Earth claimed by the descendants of Adam and Eve after they had eaten from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.

Perhaps the most peculiar thing about this Tree was the fact that it was not a peach tree nor an apple tree, and neither was it a hybrid of the two. On the contrary, it appeared to be a completely ordinary—if suspiciously symmetrical—pear tree. One could make a mean fruit salad with all of these Trees around.

Father Gilbert tended it carefully, as he had been instructed, and it quickly grew into a beautiful sapling. Crowley and Aziraphale came by sometimes to look at it, seeming perplexed about what Father Gilbert was beginning to think of as ‘the Pear Predicament,’ but they always just shrugged and left, the mystery remaining unsolved.

And that was perhaps the most distressing thing about the Tree: Father Gilbert didn’t know what it did. It was a Tree, certainly, but a Tree of _what?_ Eternal youth? Endless cream cakes? Perpetual bad hair days? Father Gilbert hadn’t the foggiest.

Now, the reason this was so distressing was that it was Father Gilbert’s _business_ to know things. Omniscience was handy like that. He saw all the threads of the multiverse laid out before him, every possible path events might take, but when he looked at the Tree, he was mystified. It was a great dark spot in his vision, a curtain that prevented him from seeing the futures beyond it.

As the Tree increased in size, branches growing sturdy and preparing to bear fruit, the dark spot grew.

After much worried pondering, Father Gilbert decided that the reason he couldn’t see what the Tree’s powers were was because no one had eaten from it yet. Like Schrödinger’s cat was both alive and dead until someone opened the box and looked inside, so too would the effects of the pear be unknowable until someone took a bite. And since the Tree’s powers could be virtually _anything_ , they appeared in Father Gilbert’s omniscient mind as _nothing_. Unlike the Trees in Eden which God had made Himself, this Tree was a strange product of both of the earlier Trees, and the mechanics of this secondhand creation were unknown to Him.

This was slightly unsettling, but though it might be beyond Father Gilbert’s omniscience, the power of the Tree was certainly less than his own—nothing in his Creation could be more powerful than him, full stop—so it posed no real threat so long as he was looking after it.

The Tree grew even larger and, late in the summer six years after God’s ineffable Plan had wrapped, it began to bear fruit.

Harper and Mara’s child, the young Henry Ambrose, was turning out to be a nuisance of a child, and he often ran around in the graveyard outside of the parish church, blissfully unaware of the bittersweetness of the place. This had brought to Father Gilbert’s attention the fact that, no matter how much he chastised young Henry for pulling on the Tree’s branches, some poor soul in the village was bound to eat from the Tree at some point or another, just by pure chance.

On top of this, it was entirely possible that the pears might prove dangerous or even fatal to mortals. With this in mind, Father Gilbert resolved to eat the first pear from this new Tree, so that he could discover its effects before anyone else unwittingly ate one. That way, he could take the proper steps to safeguard the Tree if necessary.

So, when the first pear was ripe, Father Gilbert straightened his clerical collar and strode into the cemetery. The pear was particularly beautiful, unblemished and perfectly symmetrical, and as he pulled it from its branch he could almost smell its sticky fragrance already.

“Hello, pear,” Father Gilbert said to it as he eyed the fruit in his hand, wondering for the millionth time what power it might hold. He looked back at the Tree, young but already shaping up to be as glorious as its Edenic parents. “You wouldn’t try to poison me or something dreadful, would you? Not little old me?”

The faint breeze ruffled a few leaves.

“Well, I guess we’ll see,” Father Gilbert said, turning his gaze back to the pear in his hand. He fixed his mind on the worrying patch of darkness unfolding in his omniscience, steadied himself, and took a bite.


	2. Happily Ever After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs hands together* Let's start things off easy with some good old-fashioned fluff, shall we?

_Four Years Ago_

 

“Look, you can scroll down this page—scroll—two fingers, angel—”

“I’m trying!” Aziraphale huffed, fingers sliding ineffectually over the laptop’s trackpad.

“More vertically, you’re at an angle,” Crowley directed from where he was standing behind Aziraphale and looking over his shoulder. “And you don’t have to push so hard.”

More by sheer luck than anything, the page of Google results scrolled down a fraction of an inch and stuttered to a stop.

“This is ridiculous,” Aziraphale harrumphed. “Why do they make it so bloody difficult? Poor design if I ever saw it!”

Crowley gave an amused chuckle. “It’s designed fine, angel; you’re just bad at it.”

Aziraphale made a huffing noise and opened his mouth to protest, but Crowley spoke over him.

“Here, so this is Google, right? Do you remember what I told you about Google?”

Aziraphale made a noise that said he was insulted Crowley had asked. “Yes, it is a ‘search engine.’ An ‘engine of the searches.’ A ‘searchable engine’—”

“First one,” Crowley said with amusement, giving Aziraphale’s shoulder a rub. “It searches all the content on the internet and returns results with your search terms in them.” He pointed to the results on the laptop screen. “So each of these links will take you to a page where you can read about whatever you searched for. Of course, don’t trust everything you read on the internet. Anyone can put anything online, so sometimes—”

“If it’s so untrustworthy, why would anyone use it?” Aziraphale cut in.

“Ah,” Crowley said. “Um, well, if you know what you’re doing you can tell what’s credible and what’s not.”

“I really don’t see why I need to learn all this.”

“It’s a necessity nowadays,” Crowley explained patiently. “Browsers, saving, Google…they’re a fundamental part of life now. Do you remember…do you remember when I bought the Bentley and said that the technology of the motor car would revolutionise the world and everyone who was anyone would have one? It’s like that.”

“Plenty of people don’t have cars,” Aziraphale protested. “In London alone there must be thousands. Millions! And besides, I hardly ever drive anywhere anyway.”

“It’s a life skill,” Crowley tried. “And you seem to have figured out your mobile just fine, so I don’t know what the problem is here.”

“I’m telling you,” Aziraphale said, “there’s a difference between knowing something and understanding it.”

The best the two of them could figure, Aziraphale had somehow downloaded Crowley’s entire knowledge of how to use his mobile when they had been sharing the same corporation during their escape from Heaven two years ago. Before they had separated, Aziraphale had needed to use Crowley’s mobile to access photos of sigils he had taken in Heaven, and it appeared that Aziraphale had picked up a great deal more information than what was necessary for that task.

Unfortunately, this knowledge had turned out to be little more than monkey-see, monkey-do. Though Crowley had bought Aziraphale a mobile that was the same model as his own, whenever it updated it threw Aziraphale for a loop, and he couldn’t seem to grasp that Crowley’s laptop operated on the same basic principles.

“We’ll keep plugging away at it,” Crowley said heavily, recognising that Aziraphale wasn’t likely to make any more progress in his digital tutelage today. Frankly, it was a miracle he had been able to convince the angel to agree to attempt to enter the twenty-first century at all.

Aziraphale’s eyes practically lit up in delight at this admission of defeat. “Does that mean it’s your turn now, my _dear?”_ The way he said _dear_ seemed very ominous. Crowley grimaced.

“I suppose… _Fine…_ ”

Aziraphale grinned as he hastily shut the laptop, stood up, and dragged Crowley over to the sofa. Crowley sank onto the cushions, the grimace still on his face.

Aziraphale fetched the objects of Crowley’s torment from the end table, plopped down next to his partner, and rubbed his shoulder against Crowley’s with overt enthusiasm.

“Oh, cheer up, it’s not so bad, really,” Aziraphale said when Crowley continued to grimace. He pushed the folded newspaper and pencil into Crowley’s hands. “Look, let’s start with 1-Across. A three-letter word for ‘very small.’ Any ideas?”

Crowley stared blankly down at the white and black squares of the crossword. He could almost see the tumbleweed bouncing past in his brain.

“Just say anything that comes to mind. Sometimes you’re right on accident.”

“That’s the only time I’m right,” Crowley muttered.

“That’s not true,” Aziraphale chided. “Just say whatever comes to mind.”

“Small,” Crowley said, and then felt very stupid because that was literally in the clue. “Little. Uh, tiny.” Crowley scraped the bottom of his barrel of ideas. “ _Itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie_. Try fitting that into three letters.”

Aziraphale laughed. “How about we look at another one, then? Here, try 2-Across. Oh, a five-letter Greek letter? That could be anything. Let’s try another one. Here…oh! You’ll get this one. 1-Down.”

Crowley frowned down at the clue. “‘Plant’s desire?’” he read, baffled. “How am I supposed to know what a plant desires?”

Aziraphale shot him an amused look. “You’re the one with two storeys of plants.”

“Hey, that’s an experiment,” Crowley protested. “I have to isolate the test groups.” It was actually a quite simple experiment, designed to test whether plants really did grow better under duress. A little to Crowley’s chagrin, those being coddled on the ground floor seemed to be doing better than those on the first floor, which were getting Crowley’s usual regimen of threats and tough love.

“If you were a plant, what would you desire?” Aziraphale quizzed.

Crowley raised the hand holding the pen in a show of ignorance. “…company?”

Aziraphale laughed again and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You already have that. Pick something else. Think: five letters.”

“Er, soil. Water. Sunlight. Fertiliser.”

“One of those was five letters.”

“What, do you count letters in your sleep?”

“Not in my sleep, silly. But yeah, pretty much.”

“So…‘water’?” It seemed like such a struggle.

“It’ll do for now,” Aziraphale agreed. “How about you pencil it in.”

Crowley did as he was directed.

“So now, any ideas for a three-letter word meaning ‘very small’ that starts with a ‘W’?”

Crowley thought. “Absolutely none.”

 

~~***~~

 

_“Got no feel, I got no rhyyyythm_ , _”_ Crowley’s voice drifted up the stairwell, accompanied by the distant strains of Queen. _“IIIII just keep losing my beeeeat!”_

Aziraphale grinned and closed the door to the first floor closet, where he’d been stowing some freshly washed linens. He paused for a moment as he reached the top of the flight of steps, only stopping himself from stroking the leaves of the gorgeous spiderwort perched nearby by reminding himself that he didn’t want to interfere with Crowley’s experiment.

_“It’s okay, I’m all right,”_ Crowley’s voice continued, somewhat out of tune but lovely nonetheless.

_“He’s all right, he’s all riiiiiight,”_ Aziraphale added the echo as he started down the stairwell, a grin already on his face.

_“I ain’t gonna face no defeat_ ,” Crowley continued, voice strengthening and growing even warmer in tone. _“I just gotta get out of this prison cell, someday I’m gonna be free, Looooooooorrrr_ …aw…shiiiit.”

Aziraphale reached the last stair and stepped into the kitchen, where Crowley was staring aghast at his mobile screen, a pan overflowing with the spiky ends of uncooked pasta sitting next to him on the hob.

_“Find me somebody to love, find me somebody to love…”_ continued Freddy Mercury from the stereo sitting on top of the fridge, but neither of them paid him any further heed.

“What’s the matter, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, crossing to Crowley and glancing over at the pasta. The bottom of the pan was filled with a truly appetising-smelling cream sauce dotted with broccoli and chunks of chicken, but he had to admit the pasta didn’t quite match. It looked like Crowley had snapped the fettuccine in half to get it to lie lengthwise in the pan, but he’d missed some, and the ends of the uncooked pasta stuck up like needles in a pincushion.

Crowley moved his eyes from his mobile to the pan, looking horrified. “I’ve ruined it! Oh, by Heaven—these online recipes never put all the bloody instructions in one place—”

Crowley set his mobile down rather forcefully on the counter and started rummaging around in one of the cabinets, looking quite distressed.

“What happened?” Aziraphale asked again, coming to a stop nearby.

“Stupid recipe,” Crowley grumbled as he pulled out a pot and started filling it with water from the tap. “All it said was ‘add pasta,’ didn’t say anything about _cooking_ it first.”

Despite the slightly irritated expression on Crowley’s face, Aziraphale couldn’t help but snort.

Crowley shot him a look that clearly said this was nothing to laugh about, but he didn’t protest when Aziraphale came over and wrapped him in a hug from behind. Aziraphale nosed Crowley’s hair back and planted a series of gentle kisses on Crowley’s cheek, keeping it up until he felt Crowley’s shoulders relax.

“Miracle it better?” Aziraphale suggested, propping his head up on Crowley’s shoulder and adjusting where his arms were slung around Crowley’s waist.

Crowley made an unhappy noise. “Too far along for that, I think. And I really thought this one was going to turn out.” He sighed.

“It’ll be all right, my dear,” Aziraphale assured him kindly. “It can’t be any worse than that time I tried to make Irish potato bites.”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to give a little snort of laughter as he reached to turn off the tap, Aziraphale’s arms still loose around his waist. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

The two of them had been making a concentrated effort for the last two years to learn how to cook properly; so far, they had yet to produce anything worth inviting even Bert or Harper over to dinner for.

“Angel,” Crowley said after a long moment when Aziraphale still hadn’t released him, chin resting on Crowley’s shoulder, “if you want any sort of dinner at all, I have to fish that pasta out while there’s still something worth saving.”

Aziraphale sighed but allowed his grip to slacken, giving Crowley’s cheek one last parting kiss before his partner escaped his grasp.

Crowley slid the pot of water onto a free hob, started it boiling with a glance of his eyes, and set about fishing the uncooked pasta noodles from the pan, scraping the cheesy sauce off them where possible.

“Bloody recipe,” Crowley grumbled to himself as he tossed the noodles into the pot of water. “Waste of perfectly good cheese, too.”

The pasta turned out remarkably well even though the remains of much of the sauce had to be sacrificed when they drained the pasta water. Aziraphale made sure to point this first fact out, and fortunately Crowley seemed to be of much the same opinion. He had considerably cheered up by the meal’s end and brightened even further when Aziraphale waggled a bottle of red in his direction.

Before long they were settled comfortably on the sofa, not yet properly drunk but buzzing enough to keep things pleasant. They watched the new episode of _Lucifer_ , which also turned out to be the finale of the first series; the cliffhanger left them both slightly unnerved for a moment, and then Crowley commented that he’d never seen a part of Hell that was that blue. Afterwards, they switched to _Star Trek: The Original Series_ , which they’d been steadily working their way through. When Aziraphale expressed scepticism that the Greek gods were really aliens from another planet, Crowley only replied enigmatically, “Just wait ’til you get to the one with the whales.” By the end credits of the second episode, Crowley was curled up next to Aziraphale, eyelids beginning to droop and a mostly-empty wineglass lax in his hand.

Aziraphale turned off the telly—that was one electronic device whose operation he had managed to get the knack of—and leaned over to slide the remote onto the end table. Crowley made a sound of protest, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to draw the wineglass from his friend’s hand and put in on the table as well. He settled back against the sofa a moment later, adjusting the arm he had around Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley scooted closer and settled in against him, letting out a hum of contentment.

Ever since they had exchanged pieces of their souls as part of their plan to escape Heaven, Aziraphale had realised that he could pick up on Crowley’s emotions, particularly if they were strong. A pleasant side effect of this was that occasionally Aziraphale would be suffused with a sudden, unexpected burst of warmth and affection that could only be attributed to Crowley thinking of him fondly. As Crowley burrowed against him now, Aziraphale felt two hazy warm feelings in his chest, and only one of them was his own.

Aziraphale smiled and ran his hand up and down Crowley’s shoulder in short movements. He saw that a strand of hair had fallen across Crowley’s face, so Aziraphale reached over with his free hand and gently tucked it behind his partner’s ear.

Crowley looked up at him sleepily and their gazes met, Crowley’s eyes impossibly beautiful and gold, their smooth colour interrupted only by a small speck of ice blue that matched Aziraphale’s irises perfectly. Aziraphale’s hand moved from Crowley’s ear to his cheek, running the side of his thumb gently over his partner’s cheekbone and caressing his skin.

Aziraphale felt his gaze soften, thumb slowing to a stop. “Do I ever tell you how beautiful you are?”

Crowley made a slightly amused noise, deep in his throat. “Only all the time.”

“Well, it’s very true.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched up. “You’re not so hard on the eyes yourself, angel.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Hmm,” Crowley said, leaning even closer. “Is that so?” He reached over, slid his hand around to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, and pulled the former angel down into a kiss.

When they parted some time later, Crowley laid his head down on the front of Aziraphale’s shoulder, fingers playing with the hairs at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. He let out a breath and closed his eyes, looking very much like he intended on not moving from that spot for some time.

“Do you want to go to bed?” Aziraphale asked kindly, rubbing his hand up and down Crowley’s shoulder.

“Hmm…no,” Crowley mumbled, nestling his head in further. “I’rm comfy.”

Aziraphale made a noise of understanding and fell silent, gently moving his hand up and down Crowley’s shoulder until he felt his breaths even out.

Aziraphale gazed down at his friend fondly, marvelling for the millionth time that things had turned out so well for them, and that he was able to spend nearly every evening with his arms around his beloved.

Aziraphale tipped his head down and planted a small kiss in Crowley’s hair. Then he pressed his cheek against the top of Crowley’s head, breathing in the former demon’s scent and soaking in his aura, so bright and warm, until he finally drifted off as well.

 

~~***~~

 

Aziraphale’s back was aching by the time he stirred late the next morning, feet somewhat cold but the rest of him comfortably warmed by Crowley, who was still draped over him. The hand he’d had by Aziraphale’s neck had migrated down to the former angel’s midriff, but apart from that he didn’t look like he’d moved much, head resting on Aziraphale’s chest and a line of drool reaching from the corner of his mouth down Aziraphale’s shirt.

Aziraphale stretched as best he could without disturbing Crowley, back cramped from the awkward position and legs itching for a stretch.

When Crowley continued snoozing, mouth open and oblivious to Aziraphale’s discomfort, Aziraphale leaned over and planted a kiss on his forehead. “My dear?”

“Mnrgh,” Crowley said, or something like it, shifting slightly and sucking the tendril of drool dribbling off his lip back into his mouth.

“It’s time to wake up,” Aziraphale said, planting his second kiss as close to the tip of Crowley’s nose as he could reach.

“Nuh-uh,” Crowley mumbled, shifting slightly and trying to nose closer to Aziraphale’s collar.

“Yeah-huh,” Aziraphale countered, ruffling the hair on the back of Crowley’s head.

Crowley made a noncommittal noise and gave no indication he was planning on relinquishing his position on Aziraphale’s chest.

“And you know I love you, my dear…” Aziraphale continued kindly, running his hand up and down Crowley’s back in the hopes that it might rouse him further.

Crowley nodded in agreement, the side of his face rubbing against Aziraphale’s shirt.

“…but really, you need to stop drooling all over me.”

This had the intended effect of rousing Crowley, who guiltily raised his head and pawed at his chin with the back of his hand. “Oh, sorry,” he said, and started wiping down the affected part of Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale welcomed him, and gave Crowley another kiss, this one on the cheek, as he moved to stand. Crowley reluctantly allowed him to leave, shifting back onto another cushion and running a hand through his hair.

Aziraphale made his way towards the kitchen, stretching and feeling his back ache in protest.

“Crikey, you’re a terrible pillow,” Crowley said from the sofa.

“You’re telling me,” Aziraphale said, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing the kettle from the hob. Several Christmases ago, Crowley had bought him an electric kettle, but after Aziraphale had broken the auto shutoff and then left it on repeatedly so that it boiled dry and left steam marks on the ceiling, Crowley had sighed and allowed Aziraphale to retrieve the hob-top one from storage.

“Breakfast or Earl Grey?” he called to Crowley as he filled the kettle with water.

“Either,” Crowley’s voice answered.

As Aziraphale made the tea, Crowley padded into the kitchen, licking his lips and looking wonderfully dishevelled. “You wanted to go to London today, right?” he asked, leaning against the counter and fishing a sweet out of the snack dish.

“Yes. I have a couple of books to pick up from the bookshop.”

“Want to do St James’s and the Ritz, too?”

“Maybe not the Ritz?” Aziraphale suggested as he set about pulling the tea bags from their teacups. “Been there too often lately. Gives a body a stomachache.”

Crowley snorted. “You don’t have to eat everything they put in front of you, you know.”

“Oh, but I _do_ ,” Aziraphale fretted. “And _you’re_ the one pushing the vegetables.”

“Oi, the vegetables are for _me,_ ” Crowley protested, making a show of eating another sweet. “You don’t have to eat them.”

Aziraphale made a noise of disbelief as he added sugar to their tea, one small spoonful to Crowley’s and two to his. “Everything you make nowadays either has _broccoli_ or _asparagus_ in it; what am I supposed to do—pick it out?”

“Oh, you like the broccoli, don’t try to pretend you don’t,” Crowley teased, sliding his teacup away from Aziraphale before he had the chance to add cream and giving his partner a peck on the cheek. “I’m going to shower, and then we can head out.”

As it turned out, after enjoying his cup of tea Aziraphale decided that he wanted to shower as well, and it wasn’t until late morning that Aziraphale finally bounded down the stairs, drying his hair with a miracle as he stepped into the kitchen. Due to the bond opened between them by their shared souls, Aziraphale could draw on Crowley’s angelic power whenever he liked; however, the both of them, on the whole, preferred to live among the humans as equals. Besides, there were some pleasures of life, like standing idly in a warm shower, that simply weren’t to be missed.

“Lights,” Crowley said from where he was sitting on the arm of the sofa doing something on his phone.

“Sorry?”

“Lights!” Crowley said again, looking up from his mobile and adopting a bright expression. “In the stairwell!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and retraced his steps to the stairwell, where he had indeed left the lights on. “Don’t know why it matters so much to you, my dear.”

“I like this planet, and there’s no sense wasting its resources. I do plan on living here for a good while longer. And just think of the dolphins!”

Aziraphale paused, his hand on the offending light switch. “What?”

“Plastic! In the oceans!”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh and, after switching the light off, came back to collect his thank-you kiss from Crowley.

They took the Bentley, and as they left the village they crossed the edge of the magical shield Adam had placed over Midfarthing long ago. It disguised the aura of anyone under its reach and, as best as they could tell, made the village impossible to find by any non-human who hadn’t been expressly told its location by another non-human who’d already been there.

This had become rather more relevant in the last two years, because Crowley had become something of a superstar.

His unFalling had paved the way for other demons to potentially return to Heaven, and many of them had taken Crowley’s precedent to heart. For some in Heaven, Crowley’s return to divinity was seen as the hand of God directly at work, making him nothing short of God’s envoy to Earth. It also didn’t hurt that Crowley’s heroic rescue of Aziraphale from Hell had had the unintended consequence of obliterating the main gate to the area of Hell holding the damned human souls, resulting in many escaping their prisons for the first time. In short, Crowley had almost single-handedly upended the entire structure of Heaven and Hell, and given hope to citizens of both.

This newfound popularity, mixed with the sheer size of a seraph’s aura, resulted in them occasionally attracting divine or infernal attention. Luckily, being a seraph also had its perks; only the very bravest angels or demons approached within earshot, and Crowley was able to sense anyone powerful enough to cause any trouble far enough in advance that they could simply go elsewhere. All in all, it was a small price to pay for ensuring the eventual salvation of all in the Abyss, and it certainly beat being actively hunted by Heaven.

For the last few months, though, there had been a larger than usual collection of demons clustered on the outskirts of Midfarthing, just outside of the shield. Aziraphale picked up a few of their auras—another perk of being able to access Crowley’s powers—as the Bentley sped south out of the village. None of the auras were large enough to bother worrying about, but Aziraphale wondered idly what their owners wanted.

“So,” Crowley said, drawing Aziraphale’s attention back to matters at hand, “bookshop and then St James’s? Anything else?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Anywhere you fancy?"

Apparently there was, because as they were leaving central London later that afternoon Crowley talked Aziraphale into letting them make a detour to Kew Gardens. They spent an exorbitant amount of time at the Palm House, where they took turns pointing out oddities of the plants, Aziraphale with interest and Crowley with the sort of knowledge that only comes from experience.

By the time they left, having taken a very lovely stroll around the perimeter of the gardens and admired the wide variety of flora, the sun was on its way towards the horizon.

When they finally reached Midfarthing, dusk was behind them and the stars above.

Aziraphale, agreeably tired from their long walk but eager to start in on an esoteric book on reliquaries he had fetched from his London bookshop, retired to their bedroom to start in on it. Crowley followed him, and before long they were settled into bed, Aziraphale with the bedside light on and his book propped up on his stomach, Crowley stretched out next to him with his head nestled against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

They stayed that way for a long time, Aziraphale making steady progress through the fascinating introduction while Crowley just stayed by him quietly, fingers occasionally playing with the material of Aziraphale’s nightshirt sleeve.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said after a long while, just as Aziraphale turned to the beginning of the first chapter.

“Yes?”

“How do you feel about marriage?”

Aziraphale paused where he’d already started reading the first line of the chapter and turned his attention more fully to his partner. He blinked. “…was that a proposal?”

Endearingly, Crowley blushed bright pink and propped himself up onto his elbow so they could see each other better. “I—I was just asking, um, in a—a general sort of sense—”

Aziraphale, feeling never fonder of his companion, smiled warmly. “Yes.”

Crowley blushed even darker, looking quite distressed. Aziraphale wondered absently how he could even entertain such an emotion, when the warmth of Aziraphale’s affection must have been so tangible through the bond between their souls.

“Is that a—er—a ‘yes’ to, like, marriage in general, or…”

“Yes, Crowley, of course I’ll marry you.”

Crowley blinked, looking as though he hadn’t been expecting such a straightforward response. “O—oh.” Then he smiled a little, hopefully, and their eyes met. Aziraphale set down his book and leaned over to give Crowley a kiss.

When he pulled back, Crowley was still a little pink but smiling.

“I’ve been thinking about it myself,” Aziraphale admitted. “Might stop the neighbours from whispering.”

Crowley blinked at him again. “The neighbours whisper?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Aziraphale leaned over again to give Crowley a second kiss. “But it’s not because of them that I want to marry you.”

“Oh. …good.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Why were you thinking about it?”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s a human custom, and we’re doing all the other human things. And it sounds nice.”

“It does sound nice,” Aziraphale agreed, and only through immense effort did he prevent himself from leaning over again to give Crowley yet _another_ kiss. He was just so very kissable; it was a real problem.

“And it would also be…before God, you know?” Crowley continued, sounding a little fretful now. “If what Death said is true, then I guess He’s okay with us being together, but, since He’s the only one either of us can be held accountable to anymore, I was thinking…maybe it would be good to…er…”

“Sort of ask for His blessing, you mean?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yes!” Crowley said, seeming relieved at the suggestion. “As the highest authority and all that. To make it really official.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Aziraphale, whose opinion of their Father had softened somewhat since he’d learned that he had the ineffable plan to thank for Crowley being alive at all right now, and a seraph to boot. “Though even if He objects, I’ll have you know that I’m going to marry you anyway.”

The smile Crowley gave him then really was radiant, and this time it was Crowley who leaned over for a kiss.

When they parted, Crowley’s hand had become tangled in Aziraphale’s hair, fingers lost in the curls. He took a moment to extract his hand and then laid it on Aziraphale’s chest, following suit with his head.

Aziraphale hummed and propped his book back up. When he again made no progress beyond the first sentence, he set it back down again. “What’s the colour scheme?”

Crowley’s head shifted slightly on Aziraphale’s chest. “What?”

“For the wedding. What did you have in mind for the colour scheme?”

Crowley picked his head up so that he could look at Aziraphale incredulously. “I haven’t a clue, angel, I was busy wondering if you even _wanted_ to get married!”

“Oh, Crowley, of course I want to.”

Crowley looked mildly chastised. “Yeah, okay, so I was pretty sure you were going to say yes, but I wanted to be sure. No sense putting the cart before the horse, so to speak.”

Aziraphale made a noise of understanding. “Well, now we have the horse, so what colours are you thinking for the cart?”


	3. With This Ring

It was, by all accounts, a beautiful wedding.

Father Gilbert thought so, and he had a better than front row seat.

He had been much heartened to learn that not only were Aziraphale and Crowley finally tying the knot, but that they wanted _Father Gilbert_ to do the honours. Though, strictly speaking, Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t know the full extent of Father Gilbert’s divinity, he knew that they had historically disliked him for his association with the Church and, by extension, Heaven and their Father, and this offering of an olive branch therefore seemed as wholehearted a reconciliation as any.

Though it was a small ceremony, Crowley spared no expense, and the interior of the cosy village church was strung with green, white, and gold garlands. Bouquets of flowers tied with black ribbons—many featuring blooms from Aziraphale’s garden and Oscar’s prize-winning collection—decorated the ends of the pews along the centre aisle.

That was the colour scheme they’d settled on in the end: white for the angel Aziraphale had been when he had first met Crowley, black for the demon Crowley had been at the same time, green for the Earth where they had made their home together, and gold for the forever they planned on spending there. Rarely had the perks of omniscience been so heartwarming.

The green-centred colour scheme also provided an excuse for an excess of plants in and around the church, as though highlighting the bounty of the Earth. Father Gilbert arranged for the midsummer weather to be particularly lovely, and golden sunlight highlighted every mote of dust dancing in front of the narrow Gothic windows as the ceremony began.

The processional started playing as the small wedding party entered the church from the rear and split in two. Bert and Harper, the two attendants, led the way up the each of the side aisles, followed by Crowley and Aziraphale respectively.

As they approached, Father Gilbert saw that Aziraphale and Crowley both looked particularly resplendent in matching black suits and green silk bowties. Aziraphale had complimented his bowtie with a green cummerbund and Crowley with a green waistcoat with delicate gold embroidery that matched his eyes perfectly. Both had, to Father Gilbert’s mind, committed serious crimes against their hair, and the appearance of a neatly combed part in Crowley’s was particularly egregious.

Bert and Harper took their places to either side of the altar, and _Canon in D Major_ finished playing just as Crowley and Aziraphale reached Father Gilbert.

Crowley had been grinning like an idiot since he had started down the length of the church, and now that he was reunited with Aziraphale his expression grew even brighter. A matching smile appeared on Aziraphale’s face, and for several seconds they just took each other in as the last organ notes finished echoing through the nave.

They both seemed so utterly absorbed with gazing at each other that Father Gilbert got the distinct impression that he could have declared his divinity here and now and neither would have heard a word of it. Instead, he merely cleared his throat, and Aziraphale seemed to remember that they were supposed to face Father Gilbert now.

“God is love,” Father Gilbert declared to the congregation at large, accepting that this was going to be a lengthy study in speaking in the third person, “and those who live in love live in God, and God lives in them.”

In front of him, Crowley and Aziraphale kept trying to catch each other’s eyes.

“Love is the gift,” Father Gilbert continued, “and love is the giver. Love is the gold that makes the day shine; love forgets self to care for the other, and love changes life from water to wine.”

Father Gilbert went through the questions of whether anyone objected to the union (none did) and progressed to the declarations.

“Aziraphale,” Father Gilbert said, using the former angel’s real name as he had requested, and not the similar-sounding pseudonym the villagers knew him by, “will you take Crowley to be your lawfully wedded husband, and to live with him according to God’s word? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him so long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” Aziraphale said, eyes shining.

“Crowley,” Father Gilbert said, and they repeated the same exchange, Crowley’s voice brimming with enthusiasm at his response.

“Friends, you are witnesses to these vows,” Father Gilbert said, addressing his words again to the congregation. “Will you do everything in your power to uphold Aziraphale and Crowley in their marriage?”

“We will,” said the united voices of Midfarthing.

Father Gilbert smiled. “Now, a hymn.” He motioned to Aziraphale and Crowley that they could take a seat for the next part of the ceremony.

When the last chords of _The Canticle of the Turning_ had faded away, Father Gilbert walked to the pulpit but paused at the short flight of steps leading up to it. Instead, he turned, addressing those assembled as equals. It looked like nearly all of Midfarthing had turned out, and the small church was filled to capacity, far more filling the space than ever attended his blasphemous Sunday services. Aziraphale and Crowley had made many friends during their time in the village, and though this was an opportunity to spread a message to a larger audience than Father Gilbert usually garnered, today wasn’t about him.

“Many of you have known Ziraphale and Crowley since they first arrived in Midfarthing over two decades ago,” Father Gilbert said. “It seems like the world was a simpler place back then. I certainly remember meeting them. I wasn’t very popular in those days, so none of you should be surprised when I tell you that Crowley slammed the door in my face.” That elicited a rumble of laughter from the crowd.

“But it’s all right; I deserved it, no harm done,” Father Gilbert continued, taking a slow step forward to better address the congregation. “And, in the intervening years, it has been my utmost honour to know them.”

Crowley was looking slightly puzzled, so Father Gilbert hastily steered himself onto safer ground. “I haven’t officiated many weddings, but I remember my first very well. It was a rather small outdoor affair, held in a very nice Garden. I looked forward to officiating that, my first marriage, but I have never looked forward to presiding over a union so much as I have that of the two people you see before you today. I had the good fortune to drop in on the reception location earlier this morning, and I hope I’m not spoiling anything by saying that it too is a garden, and one just as beautiful.

“I’ve been told that the story of how Ziraphale and Crowley met is too long to relate, but no mere set of circumstances could have brought them here today. No matter what external forces guided them, what paths they were told to follow, this union is a product of love, and that love was all their own. It has been a long time in the making, but it is most well met.”

Later, Father Gilbert knew, the villagers would remark on what a peculiar sermon Father Gilbert had given, which of course meant that it was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Many people go through this world believing that they play no part in its events and that they have not affected those around them,” Father Gilbert continued, “but that is simply not true. Every action has a reaction, every decision a consequence. This is no less true for Ziraphale and Crowley, as all of you know. They have touched the lives of everyone here today, in so many small and wonderful ways. That does not mean it has always been easy. They have been through the most difficult of times, but they pulled through with such courage and grace, using the strength they have together and their love for each other. They have done an immeasurable amount of good for this world, and I, like any Father, could not be more proud of them.”

After a moment of gazing fondly at his children, Father Gilbert finished with, “Amen.”

He walked over to a table at the edge of the chancel as the organ started playing the opening bars of _Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing_. The congregation began to dutifully sing along as Aziraphale and Crowley joined Father Gilbert at the table, Bert and Harper close behind them. The church register, two copies of the marriage certificate, and several rather nice pens were already awaiting them on the table. The five of them signed the certificates in turn, Bert and Harper witnessing the event and Father Gilbert signing as the officiant. When it came Crowley’s turn to sign, Father Gilbert saw the tip of his pen hesitate for a moment, and then he signed his name three times: the Enochian form of his original name, Phanuel; the squiggly insignia of his chosen demonic name, Crowley; and his current human pseudonym.

When the legalities had been concluded, Father Gilbert returned to the spot before the altar, Crowley and Aziraphale following him as Bert and Harper resumed their previous positions.

“Aziraphale and Crowley,” Father Gilbert said once the hymn had come to a close, “I now invite you to join hands and make your vows, in the presence of God and His people.”

Aziraphale and Crowley turned to face each other and Aziraphale gently took Crowley’s right hand. Aziraphale drew a deep, steadying breath. “I take you, Crowley, to be my partner for eternity, my dearest friend and truest companion. I promise to be by your side always, in times of hardship and good fortune alike. You are my light and my joy, and I will protect you and comfort you always.”

Crowley was gazing at Aziraphale with such emotion that it looked almost like he was on the verge of tears.

Aziraphale smiled and continued, “I will hold you and honour you and always strive to be a welcoming pillow for you to rest your head upon. I promise to love and cherish you always, so long as I have the pleasure to exist, in this world, in this life, or in any other. This is my sacred vow to you.”

Crowley blinked rapidly as he took Aziraphale’s hand next, his voice warbling slightly. “I take you, Aziraphale, to be my partner for eternity, my dearest friend and truest companion. I will cherish you and stay with you always, through the best and worst of the world. You will always be my angel, no matter what form you take or the mood you’re in, and I will do my utmost to remind you of it frequently.”

Father Gilbert, feeling proud tears of his own pricking at his sinuses, saw Aziraphale give Crowley’s hand a squeeze.

“I promise to always be generous and kind,” Crowley continued, voice trembling, “and share all that I am with you. You are my everything, and I will love you with my whole being until the very stars burn out, and longer if I can. This is my sacred vow to you.”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a warm smile as he finished. Crowley’s eyes were beginning to water, the tip of his nose turning slightly pink, but he radiated nothing but happiness as he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand back.

Father Gilbert turned slightly and motioned to Bert, who moved to join them. He produced two gold wedding bands from his inside jacket pocket and handed them to the vicar.

Bert resumed his place as Father Gilbert, holding the two matching rings in one hand, blessed them with the other. “God of steadfast love, by your blessing let these rings be to Aziraphale and Crowley a symbol of unending love and faithfulness, to remind them of the vow and covenant which they have made this day. Amen.”

Father Gilbert held Crowley’s ring out to Aziraphale, the one with the inscription on the inside that read _my dear_. Aziraphale took it, carefully slid it onto his betrothed’s finger, and held it there for a moment. Crowley looked like he could barely believe what was happening, gazing down at his hand as though he had just been given a gift beyond compare.

“I give you this ring as a symbol of our marriage,” Aziraphale said, voice warm. “All that I am I give to you. May God enable us to grow in love together.”

Father Gilbert held the second ring out to Crowley, the one with the inscription reading _my angel_. Crowley took it very carefully, as though he were terrified of dropping it, and gently slid it onto Aziraphale’s finger. He made his own matching promise, and they then joined hands.

Father Gilbert sniffed back the pressure in his sinuses as he raised his hands. “In the presence of God and before this congregation, Aziraphale and Crowley have declared their marriage by the joining of hands, the making of solemn vows, and the giving and receiving of rings. I therefore proclaim that they are husbands.”

Father Gilbert smiled at the two of them and thought that it was good, perhaps the best good he had ever done. “You may kiss.”

Aziraphale moved forward immediately and Crowley met him halfway, his hands jumping to the sides of Aziraphale’s face as their lips joined. The congregation cheered and clapped, filling the small space with a joyful noise and several wolf whistles. Father Gilbert took the opportunity to wipe away a few tears of his own.

When Aziraphale and Crowley finally parted a good five seconds later, they were both grinning and Crowley’s cheeks were slick.

Father Gilbert took the pair’s right hands and joined them together. “Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.”

Crowley sniffled and pawed embarrassedly at his cheeks as Father Gilbert placed upon them his blessing.

“And now, may God the Holy Trinity make you strong in faith and love, defend you on every side, guide you in truth and peace, and mercifully grant you the riches of His grace, so that, in living together in faith and love, you may receive the blessings of eternal life. May the blessing of God almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be upon you and remain with you always. Amen.”

“Amen,” the congregation rumbled, and cheered again as Aziraphale and Crowley joined hands once more and started down the centre aisle, grinning broadly as the recessional, _Allegro Maestoso_ from Handel’s _Water Music_ , began to play.

As they went, Father Gilbert thought to himself with a smile that he had never seen a couple more in love.

With the service concluded, Father Gilbert followed everyone else over to the reception, which was just as lovely as he had known it was going to be.

It was held in the back garden behind Aziraphale and Crowley’s cottage, the sizeable stretch of grass enclosed by trees. The area had once been little more than grass and clumps of weeds, but in recent years Crowley had decided to try his hand at landscaping it. The trees surrounding the lawn were tall and broad—Father Gilbert knew Crowley had encouraged them to branch out more, so the back garden could be screened from prying eyes, the better to allow himself and Aziraphale to stretch their wings—and the lawn had been divided by two winding stone pathways. The back garden also featured a handsome stone birdbath and a bronze sundial on a pedestal. Father Gilbert knew for a fact that this last addition was there simply because Crowley had thought that it would look cool.

The garden had been readied for the occasion by the addition of a dozen circular tables with long, elegant black tablecloths. Candles in glittery gold cups and Crowley’s houseplants served as centrepieces, and folded white and green napkins accompanied each place setting. Gold fairy lights had been strung across the trees, and the walkways around the cottage linking the front and back gardens were adorned with wooden arbours that had been painted white and wreathed with flowering vines.

While there was more than enough space in the back garden for the two occupants of the cottage, it quickly became crowded as all of Midfarthing squeezed in. Father Gilbert watched the villagers mill around the tables, chatting amiably amongst each other and eyeing up the wine with interest.

Twenty minutes after everyone else had arrived, Crowley and Aziraphale made their entrance in the Bentley, which had been waxed to a shine and draped with wreaths of flowers and white ribbons. To everyone’s surprise, it was Bert who climbed out of the driver’s seat once the car had rolled safely to a stop. The fact that Crowley had allowed someone else to drive his precious Bentley was nothing short of astonishing, but, judging from Crowley’s expression as he climbed out of the backseat with Aziraphale, any distress he felt over it must have evaporated quickly.

The pair were immediately beset by well-wishers, and everyone not at the front of the queue began to drift hopefully towards the tables of food. Harper was responsible for catering the dinner and the enormous cream cake, and Bert quickly moved to assert his control over the drinks; Father Gilbert knew for a fact that Crowley was intending to pay them both three times the billed amount.

During dinner, Bert and Harper gave short speeches to the newlyweds, both of which evoked much laughter and turned Crowley and Aziraphale pink in the face at one point or another. Then Aziraphale and Crowley thanked everyone for coming and toasted each other, their short speeches including several modernized references to events Father Gilbert knew had occurred centuries ago. Throughout the dinner, Donnie and Father Gilbert took turns tapping their spoons against their wine glasses to demand the couple kiss, a request the newlyweds seemed all too willing to indulge.

After the cake had been cut and the bottles of champagne and wine popped, Harper and his staff folded some of the tables up and switched soundtracks. Crowley and Aziraphale took the first dance of the evening, drifting slowly across the lawn in each other’s arms and looking remarkably unselfconscious considering everyone was watching them.

Some time later, the night growing long but staying mild, Aziraphale gavotted, much to the delight of the young Henry Ambrose Harper and the amusement of Crowley. The rest of the musical selection was an odd mishmash of Queen, modern hits, and several songs definitely not from the last century, including one that sounded like it was meant to be played on a lute. This led to some confusion among the guests, which was quickly cleared up with the information that Aziraphale liked “classical” music. Since no one was willing to admit that they didn’t know the exact confinements of what was considered “classical,” this let the subject die.

By the end of the evening, the last streaks of sunlight having long since faded from the sky in beautiful bands of magenta and gold, Crowley was sitting at the main table with his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, Aziraphale’s arm around him, the two finally alone for a moment.

Crowley made a noise deep in his throat, soft and warm. “This is the best day of my life, angel.”

Aziraphale hummed agreement and gave Crowley a kiss on the forehead. “Every day I spend with you is the best day of my life.”

Crowley lifted his head and gave Aziraphale a slightly offended look, though his eyes and voice remained warm. “That doesn’t seem very fair,” he teased, and kissed him.

They were still going at it, hands becoming increasingly tangled in each other’s hair and clothing, when Father Gilbert waved goodbye to Bert and Donnie. They were slow dancing nearby, Donnie’s heels lying in the grass not far away, but they both took the time to wave in return as Father Gilbert cast Aziraphale and Crowley one last, proud glance and left the happy couple to it.

 

~~***~~

 

Progress in the Abyss was slow, but never had it been more promising.

Golgoth’s wings were nearly a third white now, feathers from the leading edges to midway along his secondaries gleaming with a brilliance that could only be given by divinity. A few other demons had started to unFall as well, smatterings of white feathers appearing here and there. Golgoth, much to his chagrin, had in many ways become their leader.

There were still areas of resistance in Hell, of course, but they were growing smaller by the day as the truth of Redemption became clearer. Crowley the unFallen had given them all hope, but there was something to be said for seeing the evidence of that hope with one’s own eyes.

Another way Crowley had given them hope was in the space Golgoth was walking through now—the floor of a great cylindrical chasm reaching from the fifth circle of Hell all the way up to the Earth. Crowley had carved this path out of the Abyss when he had left Hell with Aziraphale two years ago, and anyone walking through the space could look up and see Heaven visible far above them, somehow more attainable by its mere sight.

Golgoth was crossing the base of this chasm now, eyes on the hundreds of damned human souls milling around the space. A number of angels had decided it was their duty to help the Fallen gain Redemption, and they mingled here with the demons, trying to organise the hopelessly large number of humans into some semblance of order.

Ever since his first feather had turned white as he had prepared to sacrifice himself for a human soul, Golgoth had acquired quite the entourage. Among them were friends of his from before the news of Crowley’s Redemption, several highly competent angels and demons seeking to lend their experience, and a large number of demons who had started to unFall but now, at a bit of a loss, followed Golgoth around in the hopes that they might learn something from him. Golgoth didn’t begrudge them this, but it made travelling extremely difficult, and he hadn’t made it more than a half dozen metres across the floor of the chasm before news of his arrival rippled through the space.

Demons, damned human souls, and the odd angel surged closer, everyone eager to catch a glimpse of him. Golgoth waved awkwardly at them as he passed, his entourage having to force their way through the crowd. Golgoth was deeply uncomfortable with this sort of attention—it didn’t help that he had been conditioned to believe any type of attention was likely to get him killed—but he knew that the sight of him reassured people, and he wanted to do right by the citizens of the Abyss. He might have been the first to begin to unFall after Crowley, but he firmly believed that that was nothing more than chance, a case of being in the right place at the right time. Crowley’s Redemption had given him much hope, and he had made it his duty to share that hope with others.

So he smiled and waved as he made his way across the open-air space, keeping an eye on his advisors to make sure they weren’t pushing anyone out of the way too harshly.

They were nearing the end of the mass of people, his advisors relaxing slightly now that the worst of the press was behind them, when a tall, lanky demon slipped through a gap in his entourage and ran straight for him.

This happened occasionally, and nearly always the demon was well-intentioned, if a bit foolish, but luckily Golgoth was looking straight at him when it happened, because he saw the glint of the knife coming unsheathed.

Golgoth took a hasty step back as the demon lunged forward, and the wild swing aimed at his chest cut through only air.

He didn’t get the chance to swing again, because one of Golgoth’s advisors shouted and the demon was immediately tackled by three of his admirers.

Golgoth took a few deep breaths, a belated surge of adrenaline hitting him.

“Are you all right?” one of his advisors asked, glancing around and motioning to the others to keep everyone back.

Another of his entourage, a demon who had served for a time under Adramelech as one of Hell’s senior guards, started hauling Golgoth’s admirers off his attacker. “Get him up.”

The demons untangled themselves and dragged the demon who’d attacked Golgoth up by his arms, one of them wrenching the knife from his grip.

“What do you have to say for yourself, knave?” the former guard growled. “Before we send you to the dogs.”

Beyond the protective wall of demons that surrounded Golgoth, the crowd had realised what was happening and an outraged ripple was beginning to spread through it.

“He’s a charlatan!” Golgoth’s attacker spat, trying ineffectually to wrench his arms free from the demons holding him. “He’s a liar and a fraud! Cast me into the pit; see if I care!”

The former guard raised his hand to gesture for him to be tossed outside the protective circle and to the mercy of the angered crowd, but Golgoth took a step closer. “No, let him speak.”

His attacker glared at him as Golgoth approached, and the former guard gave Golgoth a sideways glance but did as he was directed.

“What is your name?” Golgoth asked kindly.

The demon squirmed, glared around at everyone in attendance, and eventually ground out, “Zephrades.”

“Why do you think I’m a fraud, Zephrades?”

Zephrades glared at him sullenly.

“Let him go,” Golgoth said, directing his words at the two demons holding his arms. “Violence and retribution are not the way Redemption will be won.”

This had the intended effect of reminding the demons why they were with Golgoth in the first place, and they quickly released Zephrades, looking suddenly quite embarrassed.

“No harm will come to you,” Golgoth promised Zephrades, who was glaring around at them all suspiciously and rubbing one arm. “You have my pardon.”

Golgoth didn’t feel his next feather turn, but he had heard the sounds of surprise, wonder, and appreciation that erupted around him just then enough times to know that it had.

Zephrades stared at Golgoth’s half-spread wings wordlessly and then, against all odds, sank to his knees, looking suddenly very lost.

“N—no,” he stammered, eyes falling from Golgoth’s wings to the rocky ground beneath himself as he sank further against it. He dipped his head and fell silent, looking very much as though he planned on never moving again.

“What is the matter, friend?” Golgoth asked, puzzled. He glanced around at his advisors but they all seemed equally mystified, and a couple mildly repulsed or disapproving.

Zephrades didn’t move or respond, head still downturned.

Golgoth hesitated for a moment and then squatted down next to him, putting a hand on the unfortunate demon’s shoulder, aware that all eyes were on him. “Please, tell me what is wrong.”

Zephrades didn’t look up. “Just leave me here,” he said quietly.

Golgoth gave the demon a puzzled smile. “Come now, surely it’s not so bad? Tell me your story.”

Zephrades didn’t respond, but when Golgoth showed no intention of moving, Zephrades reluctantly ground out, “I thought you were a fraud. I—I thought you must be.”

“And why did you think that?” Golgoth asked kindly.

Again Zephrades seemed loath to respond, but he eventually said, in a very quiet voice, “I—I tried to unFall. I tried so hard, but—” Zephrades broke off and it was a moment before he continued, Golgoth’s hand still steady on his shoulder. “I have done so much evil. If you were a fraud, then—but you are not. It is just that I am beyond Redemption.”

“No one is beyond Redemption,” Golgoth said firmly. “It may be difficult, but if you truly wish to make a change, then it may be attained.”

“You don’t know that,” Zephrades said bitterly.

“I believe it,” Golgoth said. “I believe it wholeheartedly, and I believe you can be saved.”

Zephrades shook his head, eyes still fixed on the ground.

“I will help you,” Golgoth said, and offered his hand. “Come, walk with me, and I will not rest until your hope is restored.”

Zephrades glanced up at his hand and then quickly looked away. “Do not jest with me.”

“It’s not a jest,” Golgoth said reassuringly, keeping his hand extended. “Please.”

Zephrades looked over at him again, and this time he stared at Golgoth’s proffered hand as though he couldn’t believe it was real. His gaze lingered on it for a long moment but then, again, he shook his head. “I am not worthy. I have damned too many. You would be wasting your time.”

“No, I wouldn’t be,” Golgoth said, still offering his hand. “And you and I do not decide the worth of someone’s soul.”

There was another very long pause and then, finally, tentatively, as though he expected it to be retracted at any moment, Zephrades reached for Golgoth’s hand.

Golgoth smiled as Zephrades’s hand closed over his own, and he helped the other demon to his feet.

“Friends,” Golgoth said, raising his voice and addressing his words to all those around him, Zephrades standing awkwardly by his side and staring at his feet, “this is Zephrades. He is to be from this day forth always at my right hand.”

 

~~***~~

 

_Three Years Later (One Year Before the Present)_

 

Ludwig II, erstwhile King of Bavaria, directed the very confused young woman whose heaven he was in back towards the door he had just come through. There she would find a cluster of volunteer souls, who would explain exactly what was happening and make sure she knew her options.

He’d been at this for years now, passing through individual heaven after heaven, meeting people from every walk of life and explaining to them that the world they had been living in wasn’t real. Their heavens, he would explain, were just projections of their imaginations, perfect fake worlds for their souls to inhabit in the afterlife.

Though some found the fact that their heavens were imagined irrelevant, Ludwig fiercely believed that the only happiness was to be found in freedom. In agreement with him were Alexander Hamilton and Harry Houdini, two of the other souls Ludwig had met soon after he had escaped his heaven on the heels of the magician Aziraphale. Together, they preferred the company of real souls over their imagined counterparts and had championed the right to choose for all of the righteous human souls in Heaven. The imagination of the soul in a heaven produced plenty of company for that soul, but the trouble was that said company was just as much of a shallow imitation as everything else, and acted entirely in whatever manner would bring the soul the most happiness. Theoretically, this system worked perfectly; in practice, it turned out that many humans much preferred real companionship, even if this led to the occasional disagreement.

Azrael, the archangel in charge of the accommodations for the righteous souls in Heaven, had pursued Ludwig, Alexander, Harry, and Otho, the fourth member of their group, for months before finally putting an end to their behaviour. Despite Azrael’s straight-laced appearance, however, she did have the best interests of the souls in her domain at heart, and had reluctantly permitted a test of Ludwig’s theory.

The test went better than any of them could have expected. They had pulled a number of randomly selected souls from their heavens, explained what was happening, and offered them a choice: to return to living in their fabricated heavens, ignorant that these events had ever occurred; to share their heaven with another person, usually a spouse or child, if the other party was willing; or to be part of a multi-person shared heaven, where you could interact with other souls but could also retreat to your own heaven if desired.

So far, the choices of the souls had been across the board, but those living in either type of shared heaven were doing surprisingly well and were often even happier than those who chose to stay in their imagined heavens alone. There were hiccups, of course, and plenty of times when wishes for shared heavens couldn’t be accommodated, either because the other party was unwilling or because they weren’t in Heaven. And that wasn’t even counting the times when a shared heaven simply didn’t work out due to personal differences. In these cases, the souls were simply returned to their imagined, personal heavens, no harm done. But when things did work out, the involved souls were so very grateful and delighted to be _truly_ reunited with their friends and families that Ludwig knew their endeavour was wholly worth the effort. It also didn’t hurt that it turned out that many interpersonal relationships operated more smoothly without all the stresses of Earthly life.

Ludwig, Alexander, and Harry had spent that last five years leading the effort to reunite Heaven’s souls, an endeavour made all the easier now that they had Azrael’s full blessing. There was a great deal of work to be done, but it was very important work. Ludwig’s only regret was that Otho, the Roman emperor who had shared their initial adventures, had chosen to return to his own heaven after Azrael had caught them. Due to the great deal of time that had elapsed since he had last walked the Earth, Otho had found himself rather out of his depth with nearly everyone he encountered, and had desired to return to a world whose workings he understood much better.

Now, Ludwig watched the most recent soul he had met vanish through the invisible door that led from her heaven, and turned to where he knew another door must lie, this one bordering the next heaven over.

He had become very adept at finding the invisible doors, and located it almost immediately. He pulled it open and stepped forward into a beautiful, sunny summer day in an exquisite baroque garden.

Gravel lanes bordered by geometric hedges and rows of slender, perfectly cone-shaped trees ran off nearly as far as Ludwig could see in every direction. Nearby, flowers had been planted in swirling patterns in the grass, and he could hear the sound of a water feature.

Ludwig turned and froze as he saw the palace nestled into the landscape behind him, situated just beyond a man-made lake sporting a tiered stone fountain. It was a relatively small palace, really more of a castle, built in the Neo-Gothic style with octagonal, crenelated towers and a few small chimneys. When Ludwig had been alive, it had been called Schloss Berg. He shivered briefly as several memories surfaced all at once, one of them the unpleasantness of the evening of his own murder, which he was trying his best to forget about.

But he had other memories of this place, from when he was younger, young and as carefree as a prince could be, shirking his royal duties and writing love letters to the handsomest young man in the town, Richard Hornig, who had been one of Ludwig’s equerries—

Ludwig saw the inhabitant of this heaven then, a man walking along the path on the other side of the pond. He was wearing knee-high boots and a wonderful blue coat of the sort worn by Bavaria’s grooms. And there, perched on his head, was a distinctive feathered cap that Ludwig had only ever seen worn by one of his equerries.

“R—Richard?” Ludwig stammered in shock, feeling all the air leave his lungs. He had been looking for Richard for so long, hoping to find his heaven behind every door, that he didn’t dare believe it now.

Ludwig took a few trembling steps forward, struggling to make out more details of the man on the other side of the pond. Then he quickly started down the path leading around the water feature, his eyes never leaving the figure on the opposite side. The man glanced idly towards the fountain, and in that instant Ludwig was absolutely certain who it was, recognised the gait of his stride and his profile as he turned.

“Richard!” Ludwig shouted, waving his arms and breaking into a sprint, running as fast as his legs would carry him towards the man he loved above all others. _“Richard!”_

Richard turned as Ludwig reached him, and it _was_ him. He was perfect, just as Ludwig remembered him, pale golden hair spilling down his cheeks in waves and brushing against the stiff collar of his riding jacket. Ludwig almost knocked him over as he grabbed his lover and pulled him into an embrace.

“Oh, Richard, _I found you.”_


	4. The Butterfly Effect

_The Present_

 

The future was changing.

Or maybe it wasn’t; it was hard to tell.

For Father Gilbert, it was now _impossible_ to tell.

It had been two days since Father Gilbert had taken a bite of the pear from the Tree growing over Aziraphale’s grave. Two days since the patch of darkness in Father Gilbert’s omniscient mind had blotted out every part of the multiverse.

Two days since Father Gilbert had functionally _lost_ his omniscience.

He could still look into the space where there had once been sprawling timelines, all the infinite universes this one could unspool into laid out like threads ready to be woven into a tapestry, but those futures were shrouded in darkness now.

 _That_ , as far as Father Gilbert could tell, was the power of the third Tree—its fruit held the gift of Free Will. _True_ free will, that was, rendering the recipient free from the omniscience and potential meddling of any higher power.

The rest of Father Gilbert’s powers remained intact, as did his memory of all that had come before, but he was groping blindly at the threads of the future, unable to see past the present moment or elsewhere in space beyond his line of sight.

This, Father Gilbert realised, must be the way the humans lived, trapped in the present and unaware of catastrophe or windfalls headed their way. It gave him a new empathy for his creations, and especially for Aziraphale and Crowley, who had suffered through so much without the knowledge that everything would be all right in the end, and that they had Someone looking out for them.

Or, at least, that was what Father Gilbert _presumed_ the Tree did. He couldn’t be certain, because of course the only things he could be certain of now were those that he learned with his own senses. He couldn’t even test out his theory by having a human eat from the Tree, because he wouldn’t be able to tell if they had been removed from his omniscience. It was possible, though unlikely, that the Tree only removed one’s own omniscience, or otherwise limited their sights, but since that meant it would have no noticeable effect on practically anyone _but_ God, it seemed rather unlikely. Besides, what would the knowledge of good and evil given life manifest itself as but free will?

That fact that Father Gilbert had been robbed of one of his most useful properties was distressing, but he was confident it would be a temporary situation only. The Tree, after all, was a product of his own creation, which could not be greater than He who had created it. Its effects, like those of its parent Trees, were designed for use by humans and the occasional angel only. Father Gilbert suspected its effects would begin to wear off after a week or two.

Without his eyes on the multiverse, he couldn’t be certain that something terrible wasn’t about to occur, but when he had last looked everything had been calm. All he had to do was carry on with his usual routine and do as he had planned to do in that untroubled future he had seen, and everything would stay on track.

It was only a fortnight or so, even if it meant living with all the foresight of a rock. What, Father Gilbert thought to himself reassuringly, could possibly go wrong?

 

~~***~~

 

Time is a funny old thing. As the adage goes, all it takes is the flap of a butterfly’s wings to change the fate of the universe. Ray Bradbury, as it turned out, wasn’t so very far off the mark.

On Sunday morning, bright and early and before he had to be heading over to the church to prepare for the service, Father Gilbert walked to Mendellson’s cafe for a cup of coffee and some breakfast, as he was wont to do every Sunday.

Unfortunately for the fate of the universe, this was not like every other Sunday.

“Morning, Harper,” Father Gilbert greeted as he came to the counter to place his order. “How’s Henry?”

“Oh, he’s a right rascal,” Harper replied cheerily. “He’s so excited that he’ll be turning six soon. Runs around telling it to everyone he meets.”

“Doesn’t it just make you want to do the same?”

Harper laughed. “Not at my age; I don’t need any more pity and sympathy. What can I get you?”

“Oh, ah, a coffee and a scone. With the raspberry jam.”

“Coming right up.”

A minute later, Harper came back with the coffee but no scone. “Sorry about the scone, I just remembered we’re fresh out of raspberry jam. Is there something else I can get you?”

“Oh, hmm…”

Now as it happened, this was the first time anyone had ever been out of anything Father Gilbert asked for. This was because Father Gilbert, upon knowing that a certain ingredient was not available, automatically ordered something else.

It took Father Gilbert a few seconds to glance over the menu and settle on a second option. “A slice of the Victoria sponge, then. Do you still have that if you’re out of jam, though?”

“I made the cake yesterday before I realised how low we were getting on jam,” Harper explained. “I’ll get you a slice.” Harper left again.

He returned a few moments later with the slice of cake. “Here you go, Father.”

This previously redundant exchange, one that lasted no more than thirty seconds, was to prove to be, in the history of the universe, terrifically important.

Father Gilbert thanked Harper and sat down at a table near a window with his cup of coffee and slice of cake. When he had finished, he returned to the counter, paid, and left for the church.

The truly unfortunate fact was that, had Father Gilbert ordered the slice of sponge cake the first time and exited the cafe only thirty seconds earlier, he would have bumped directly into Oswald Osbert Osprey, the last vicar of Midfarthing, whom Father Gilbert had displaced so many years ago and who had returned to visit the parish that had given him his start as a priest.

Instead, Oswald walked uninterrupted past the cafe as Father Gilbert fished around in his pocket for some spare change, and by the time he finally stepped out onto the pavement Oswald was out of sight.

Utterly ignorant of the massive shift in history that was occurring, Father Gilbert walked unconcernedly to the church, slipped in the back, and prepared to officiate the service as he had every Sunday for the last twenty-seven years.

It was, by all accounts, a perfectly normal service, which was to say that it skipped over the misleading parts of the liturgy and featured a long sermon about the various inaccuracies contained in that week’s reading, followed by an explanation of what God had really meant.

Oswald Osbert Osprey, not meaning to upstage his successor, had taken a seat near the back and clung to it as he was hit with wave after wave of blasphemy, heresy, and human arrogance.

In another universe, that wonderfully untroubled one in which everyone lived happily ever after and the Plan went perfectly, Father Gilbert’s collision with Oswald outside Mendellson’s cafe prompted him to give a much more reserved service, so as not to worry the former vicar.

But that future was no longer the one before them, and Oswald Osbert Osprey stormed out of the church before the service was even finished. Feeling dirty and very much like Father Gilbert had shoved him from his parish so he could poison the minds of the fine, God-fearing people who lived there, Oswald left the village and headed for Worcester, determined to take this directly to the bishop.

When he was only in Charringford, an adjacent village to Midfarthing, however, he realised that he rather had to use the loo, and decided to stop at a small cafe to relieve himself before starting the drive north.

And it was there, by sheer coincidence, that he stumbled across none other than Walter Jamieson, who had been the proprietor of Midfarthing’s bank until his fraud conviction six years previously. He was on his way back to London from Cardiff and had taken great care to avoid stopping anywhere in Midfarthing, lest he be recognised.

And so it happened that, on his way back from the loo, Oswald walked right past, recognised, and then backtracked to Walter, who was sitting at a table making his way through several lemon-and-sugar pancakes.

 _“Walter?”_ Oswald asked incredulously. Walter Jamieson, a distinctly guilty expression on his face, looked up nervously from his pancakes. _“Walter Jamieson?”_

“Uh,” said Walter, recognising Oswald but unable to place his face and hurriedly trying to recall if he was one of the bank’s many customers that he had scammed.

“It _is_ ,” Oswald said, more sure now. “From Midfarthing? You ran a bank, right?”

Walter, who was growing increasingly certain that he was about to be embarrassed in front of a bunch of strangers over his breakfast, reflected soberly that he really should have driven further from Midfarthing before stopping. He nodded reluctantly.

“It’s me, Oswald Osprey,” Oswald said in an overly friendly manner. “I was the vicar, years ago. You might not recognise me; I was quite young then. It must have been…oh, nearly thirty years ago? ’91 or so?”

Walter did remember him now, just barely, but the other diners were already beginning to cast them curious looks, so he hastily motioned for Oswald to sit down.

“Oh…yeah!” Walter said, struggling to dredge up some useful memory. “You were…just starting off as a priest, weren’t you? After Reverend…I forget his name…retired?”

“Yes! Reverend Trumbull. Oh, those were the days. Do you still live in Midfarthing?”

“Uh,” Walter said, searching for some story that a priest might find permissible. “No, I, um, chose to move on a few years ago. Had some rough times but pulled through okay. I’m living in London now, but I had some business in Cardiff.”

“Still in banking? I seem to remember your business was doing well.”

“Oh, no, I, er, decided to shake things up a bit. Did some community service and found that that helped me put things into perspective.”

It was at this point that the person sitting at the table next to theirs, a low-ranking demon named Casmirona, overheard the words ‘community service’ and suddenly became a lot more interested in her neighbours’ conversation.

Casmirona was trying, like many demons, to Redeem herself. She had taken the three commandments of the unFallen Crowley—to repent of sins, do community service, and meet people—very much to heart. She had sought inspiration among the humans, and had stopped at this cafe to people-watch while on her way back from visiting a demonic friend of hers who had been stationed at Midfarthing to monitor the unFallen seraph dwelling there. Even from this distance, she could feel the faint impression of Crowley the Redeemed’s aura, bright and incredibly powerful. She had been musing over this, wondering if maybe someday her own aura could be so bright, when the name of one of the commandments, ‘community service,’ was spoken and her attention was arrested.

“Interesting! I was actually just in Midfarthing this morning, and I must ask—are you familiar with the current priest, Father Gilbert?”

“Oh, a little bit. I know _of_ him, but I’m afraid I didn’t go to many of his services. I didn’t find them to my taste.”

Oswald, who had been, in his own opinion, recently subjected to a great personal wrong, immediately seized upon this opportunity to commiserate.

“Well, _I_ just came from one of his services and, frankly, I am _appalled_. The way he said it, you’d think God was invented in the New Testament! And that the God of the Old Testament was—was—well, some sort of wicked or ignorant fool! He showed absolutely _no_ respect for the Bible, even less for God—if I didn’t know any better, I’d say the man thought he _was_ God. Absolutely unacceptable.”

“Yeah, I thought the same,” said Walter, who didn’t because he hadn’t been to a service at all, but who thought it was rude to seem undevout in front of a holy man, especially one with such a prominent cross necklace.

“What gets me is that he was my _successor_. I never would have left if I’d known the havoc he would wreak! Even just looking at how he butchered the liturgy: it is the—the _model_ upon which the Church is built. You cannot simply disregard millennia of tradition because you _feel_ like it. There are certain ideals we hold ourselves to, the ideals of Paul, the exemplar of the good Church. And what does _Father_ Gilbert do? He stomps all over that brave history, calls Paul an idiot and a liar, and claims _he himself_ has knowledge others do not! It is a disgrace.”

“Absolutely,” Walter agreed, feeling very much like he would have liked to just eat his pancakes in peace.

Oswald continued to explicate in great detail every wrong he had witnessed Father Gilbert do in the last hour, but Casmirona was no longer listening.

Instead, she was turning over what Oswald had just said in her mind, thinking about predecessors, models, and exemplars, and how Golgoth was all three of those things to her. Golgoth, a demon as low-ranking and unimportant as herself, had been the first demon after Crowley to bear a feather that had turned white again. The first feather, it was believed, was the hardest, and over the last few years Golgoth’s wings had grown progressively whiter. These days, he only had a handful of black feathers still left. He was a hero to all in the Abyss, a leader in a revolution unlike any seen since Lucifer had spoken out against their Father. Other demons had started to unFall as well, white feathers appearing here and there like the first few raindrops before the coming of the storm. The number of those lucky souls was still relatively low, but it was not for want of trying by the rest. Redemption, it was clear, was difficult but by no means impossible.

Casmirona was still thinking about this when she left the cafe several minutes later and returned to Hell. There, she learned that Golgoth, the hero himself, was later that day to give a speech to all the denizens of Hell, demons and humans alike.

Golgoth could usually be found helping damned human souls near the areas that had once been their prisons, and Casmirona looked for him there, following the sounds of voices and the trail of newly freed humans.

Casmirona walked until she turned a corner and saw him. Golgoth was easy to pick out of a crowd due to the brilliance of his white feathers, even if the crowd also included angels, as the case was now.

Casmirona made her way closer, eyes fixed on Golgoth. He and a number of other demons, a few with smatterings of white feathers of their own, were helping pull souls from their previous confinements. Most of them were just dazed, but many emerged screaming or broke down crying within seconds of their rescue. Once they had been suitably calmed, they were directed to a nearby angel, who was standing with a pen and a ledger. Keeping track of everyone was turning out to be a logistical nightmare, but they had to start somewhere.

Casmirona approached cautiously, passing a few other demonic gawkers and hoping that if she adopted a purposeful enough stride she could walk unchallenged past the angel with the ledger. Unfortunately, he noticed her straight away.

“Halt there, friend,” the angel said, and Casmirona slowed guiltily as he approached her, motioning to the next soul in the queue to wait a moment. “What is your business?”

“I—I just wanted to—” Casmirona looked helplessly over at Golgoth, trying not to seem too starry-eyed.

“Work is currently in progress,” the angel said, not unkindly. “We are trying to be as efficient as possible. Please wait here, and you may get a moment with Golgoth when there is a break.”

Despite herself, Casmirona found this to be a perfectly reasonable request, and she nodded. She reluctantly walked back to the handful of other hopeful-looking demons, feeling thoroughly chastised.

Human souls streamed past her one after the other, many gazing at her with stricken, shocked, or devastated expressions. They didn’t seem to realise yet that they were being saved; the enormity of what was occurring would be explained to them when they reached another angel waiting for them at the end of the corridor; for now, the priority was pulling people from their personal hells as quickly as possible. Other demons were working to break the master sigils binding the entire system in place, but the work was slow, as no one really understood how the spells worked anymore and didn’t want to make a misstep and perhaps worsen circumstances.

Casmirona had stood there for well over an hour, watching the sad parade of humanity and feeling more compassionate by the minute, when it seemed like a break might be approaching. Golgoth and the other demons had reached the far end of the corridor and were preparing to double back and explore another route.

The angel with the ledger recorded the names of the last few humans as Golgoth and the others started back down the rocky corridor towards them.

Golgoth slowed to have a word with the angel with the ledger, and Casmirona stood by nervously while the other demons filed past.

“Excellent, Gedariah, thank you,” Casmirona heard Golgoth say to the angel with the ledger as she edged closer.

When Golgoth turned a moment later, his eyes immediately fell on Casmirona, standing stock still and suddenly petrified to be this close to her hero. Casmirona had always imagined Golgoth to be tall and handsome, as befit his courage and compassion, but up close it was apparent that he was neither. His aura was also barely palpable even a metre away—he really was no more powerful than she—though she fancied she felt some spark of divinity in it, some hint of the change occurring in him. In that moment, though, he was absolutely perfect, because there was nothing about her hero that could possibly be wrong.

“Hi,” Golgoth said when she continued staring at him.

Casmirona opened her mouth and, to her extreme relief, her voice didn’t fail her. “Mr Golgoth, sir, I—I just wanted to tell you how wonderful a model you are, and how much I appreciate you being a trailblazer and an exemplar to us all.”

Golgoth, to Casmirona’s eternal delight and wonder, gave her a warm smile. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“I—I just—models are very important, and I don’t know what I would do without your guidance,” Casmirona stammered, wondering if she should have quit while she was ahead.

Golgoth smiled again, but it was a bit sadder this time. “I cannot take credit. Crowley the unFallen is the real trailblazer here.”

Casmirona nodded eagerly, ready to agree with any words from Golgoth’s mouth, but Golgoth had grown a little pensive. “Perhaps I do not make that clear often enough.” He turned his attention back to her. “But thank you, and I hope I can continue to be a good influence.”

Casmirona nodded again, eyes wide and feeling like her life was now complete.

Golgoth gave her one last smile— _three_ smiles from the Hero of Hell, she could die happy—and walked past her, addressing his next words to the small group of demons who’d clustered behind her, vying for a glimpse of Golgoth.

“Hello there, friends. We’d be happy of the help, if any of you would like to join us…?”

 

~~***~~

 

Kazariel folded her arms as she looked out over the crowd already beginning to form around the outcropping of rock that would shortly serve as the platform for Golgoth’s speech. They were near the floor of the cylindrical chasm that Crowley had created as he’d blazed his way out of Hell, tunnelling a path to freedom that was as much physical as symbolic. Far above them, a circle of blue sky was hazy but visible even from their spot in ethereal plane, the layers of Hell rising up towards it in rocky striations.

These last few years, Kazariel had been working closely with Golgoth and the group of angelic and demonic advisors that had formed around him, aiding in what she hoped would ultimately become the Redemption of all of the Fallen. Due to this involvement, she had a particularly good spot from which to view the speech, standing alongside Golgoth’s other top advisors and administrative personnel on an isolated shelf of rock that jutted out slightly over the uneven ground below.

Golgoth had yet to arrive when Kazariel saw Gedariah make his way onto the shelf of rock, coming to a stop only a few metres away. Immediately self-conscious, Kazariel uncrossed her arms and adjusted her stance slightly. While Gedariah was occupied with greeting several of the archdemons nearby, Kazariel took a moment to make sure her hair wasn’t a disaster.

She had met Gedariah a few months ago; he was a dominion under Azrael who had volunteered to help with the Redemption of Hell. From what she’d heard, he had briefly met Crowley in Heaven after he had unFallen. Afterwards, having seen the evidence of Redemption with his own eyes, he had decided to put his efforts towards helping bring it to others. As far as Kazariel was concerned, this was a very noble cause, her own involvement in it notwithstanding, and it didn’t hurt that he looked the part. Broad shoulders, a strong chin, a kind smile, arms like—

It was entirely regrettable that that was the moment Golgoth chose to arrive. The crowd below them erupted in cheers, appearing from Kazariel’s vantage to be little more than a sea of black wings dotted with the occasional white feather. Golgoth spread his wings as he stepped out onto the rock that was to be his soapbox. His feathers were nearly all white now, only a handful of black ones still tucked up near his body. The noise from the crowd swelled even louder as they saw the progress he had made.

“He will unFall soon,” said a voice from beside Kazariel, and she jumped when she realised it was Gedariah. She couldn’t help but notice that he smelled very nice.

As a general rule, angels didn’t tend to feel much in the way of physical attraction, but Kazariel had spent many of her formative years on Earth living above an adult bookshop, and there were some things a person simply could not unlearn.

“Y—yeah,” Kazariel agreed, quickly turning her attention back to Golgoth. “At the rate he’s going, a week or two.”

“Hello everyone!” Golgoth called, voice amplified by supernatural means. Behind him, hovering close enough to offer any assistance if needed, Kazariel spotted Zephrades, who had been Golgoth’s right-hand man for some time now.

The crowd cheered a greeting.

“Thank you all for coming!” Golgoth shouted. He had made a great deal of progress as an orator in the last six years, and Kazariel felt a spark of pride as he worked the crowd. When she had first met him, he had been quite timid and afraid of speaking out to anyone above his station—which was practically everyone. A surprising courage had run through him, though, the courage that had brought him to be the first demon to successfully seek out Crowley—a seraph, capable of annihilating someone like Golgoth with half a thought—and ask for advice. And after he had returned and spread the message Crowley had given him, the demons and damned human souls alike had come to see him as the Hero of Hell, and so their hero he had become. He had risen magnificently to the challenge.

“I’ll keep this short since we all have a great deal of work to do,” Golgoth said, half-folding his wings and raising his hands for quiet, “but I wanted to speak with you all one last time, while I am still one of you.” The crowd noise started to die down as they settled in to listen.

“As you can all see,” Golgoth continued, gesturing at his wings, “I don’t think I’ll be able to call myself a demon for much longer, but I want all of you to know that I’m not going to let that change me. You—all of you— _we_ are finding Redemption, together, and I will be right next to each of you, working to make things right, for as long as it takes, no matter the colour of my wings!”

This elicited a huge cheer, and Golgoth had to wait for several seconds before he could speak again.

“I ask you not to forget that I am just another one of you. I may become the next to unFall, but I wasn’t the first and I won’t be the last. There are many names I know I am called—” Here Golgoth was obliged to wait again as the crowd shouted suggestions at him— “among them ‘hero,’ but I am no hero. I simply followed the commandments I was given, the same three you all know by heart.”

The crowd roared agreement.

“You call me a hero, but I am simply a follower, as many of you seek to follow me, but I cannot take credit for that which is not mine. It is _Crowley the unFallen_ , not I, who should receive the credit for offering all of us the hope of Redemption, and for inspiring us all to seek the grace we once thought forever denied us. Look around you— _this_ is the path Crowley blazed, and we should not forget the hope which he gave us all when we felt his return to divinity. You may call me a hero, but we are all following in the footsteps of a giant.”

“He can praise Crowley all he wishes,” Gedariah commented from beside Kazariel as the crowd cheered, “but it will only make them love him more.”

“Golgoth never did want any credit,” Kazariel sighed, keeping her attention from straying to Gedariah’s proximity only with great difficulty. “Unfortunately, I doubt very much if Crowley wants all the attention either.”

“A new world is dawning,” Golgoth continued boldly, “and in it each of you will be your own hero. I want you all to remember that—all you need is hope, and you can write your own story. Redemption, as we know, comes from within, and I know that each one of you has it in you. And I promise you all now that I will not rest until every last one of you finds it!”

The crowd roared again.

“And in this new world we will create,” Golgoth continued, voice growing stronger, “we will all be equal, as we once were. My brothers and sisters, we can be angels again, if we only take the grace offered to us! People of the Earth, you will be restored to the Heavenly home that ought to have been your inheritance, and you shall exchange your sorrows for joy.

“I am here to tell you that this future is not fanciful. It is not beyond our grasp. If we are very brave, and very kind, and very sincere, this future _can_ be ours. But it is not guaranteed. We must _work_ for it, day in and day out, until the work is done! The road may be difficult, and it may at times seem endless, but _we can make it_. We will do our good works and not stop until the day the Abyss is as empty as the day God made it!”

The cheering of the crowd, which had been growing in intensity, peaked, and Golgoth’s parting “Thank you!” was entirely lost.

“They really love him,” Gedariah noted in that thoroughly sensible way of his.

“Wouldn’t you?” Kazariel asked. “He is the bearer of the first good news the Abyss has ever had.”

 

~~***~~

 

“This is _outrageous_ ,” the Metatron thundered, pacing back and forth agitatedly in their office. “That _demon_ thinks he can return to Heaven if he simply _wishes_ that it is so.”

“He pretends to play God,” agreed Michael from where he was standing several paces away, in front of the elegant Mannerist fireplace, arms folded. “He would have them _all_ unFall, probably unto Lucifer himself.”

“This cannot be allowed to continue,” the Metatron growled, stopping when they reached the end of their large mahogany desk and turning to pace the other way. “He is rubbing our noses in it, but he should not try our patience. He should be dealt with before this goes any further.”

“If he dies, he would be a martyr,” Michael pointed out. “Galvanise their cause even further. We both know he’s off the table.”

The Metatron continued pacing, boots hard on the marble floor and three sets of white wings ruffling behind them.

“And even if he were to die in an accident,” Michael continued, “and somehow we weren’t suspected of foul play, I doubt the revolution would crumble. Now that they have their disgusting hope, they won’t be rid of it.”

“Revolutions,” the Metatron rumbled to themself. They had always hated the messy things; they were difficult to control.

“My men report that the speech attempted to shift a lot of credit to Crowley as well,” Michael added, “so even if Golgoth disappeared, Crowley would be their de facto symbol, as the only demon who has successfully unFallen. He would become their new rallying point.”

“Then we eliminate Crowley,” the Metatron growled, turning again as they reached the end of their desk. “Show them what happens to demons with the audacity to try to return to Heaven. The impurity of the Abyss cannot be cleansed, and their presence here would corrupt Heaven.”

“But, again, if we make a martyr of him, the cause will only grow,” Michael pointed out. “We would never hear the end of how the pure-hearted Crowley was ruthlessly slain by tyrants. Also, he’s a seraph now, so killing him would be difficult.”

“You forget, Michael, that I too am a seraph, and one with the will of God on my side.”

“Of course,” Michael agreed quickly, “but, in any case, he’s vanished. He’s somewhere on Earth in England, but no one can get within a quarter mile of him. He doesn’t want to be found, and he’s making a point of it.”

“No one can hide forever.”

“Crowley’s off the board, as things stand,” Michael tried. “He hasn’t declared allegiance to Heaven or Hell, so far as we know. Is pulling him into action wise? If he sides with the damned, he would be a great asset to their cause.”

“Of course he will side with the damned,” the Metatron growled, rocking to a halt as the essence of a plan suddenly formed in their mind. They looked over at Michael, grey eyes suddenly gleaming with purpose. “He’s one of them, right at his rotten core. But we will use that to our advantage.”

Michael, looking a little confused, opened his mouth to speak, but the Metatron carried on over him.

“If he is a model to them, then let them follow his example,” the Metatron said, walking over to Michael and placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Michael looked up at them in puzzlement as the Metatron gave him a grim smile. “We’re not going to kill him, dear Michael. We’re going to Fall him.”


	5. The Effable Plan

_“Fall_ him?” Michael repeated, puzzled. “How?”

The Metatron took their hand from Michael’s shoulder and strode back towards their desk, turning over the matter in their mind. “I’m not sure yet,” they admitted. “What are his weaknesses; where are the cracks in his armour?”

The Metatron reached their desk and turned back to Michael in time to see the archangel shrug hopelessly. “Hell, perhaps? If he is still—wait!” Michael raised one hand to stop his own train of thought, looking as though he had just had a stroke of genius. “The Fallen principality, of course. Aziraphale. When the archangels interviewed Crowley when he first unFell and came to Heaven, he said that he had unFallen because he had stayed with Aziraphale even though he was human— _that_ was the reason he gave.”

“Aziraphale,” the Metatron considered, tasting the Fallen angel’s name on their lips. “That shall work most nicely. What unFell Crowley shall be responsible for Falling him again.”

“But we don’t know where he is either,” Michael said, sounding discouraged. “Hiding with Crowley, presumably. I don’t know how we’re supposed to—”

“Do not worry yourself over the details, Michael,” the Metatron chastised, raising a hand to cut the archangel off. “There is a more pressing matter than Aziraphale’s whereabouts to consider.” The Metatron turned back to their desk and ran their fingertips over the moulded edge. “No one has yet satisfactorily explained to me how Aziraphale—a deceased, mortal _human_ —was able to return to Earth at all. He has no corporation, yet he has been seen on Earth. How is this possible?”

When Michael was not forthcoming, the Metatron tapped their fingers twice on the edge of the desk and then turned back to the archangel.

“I don’t know,” Michael said. “The last consensus I heard among the supporters of Redemption was that our Father had given him a corporation.”

“Our Father is not at work here,” the Metatron said sharply. “I am His Voice, and He has not spoken to me.”

Michael shrugged again. “Perhaps he received help from some other source? I do not know.”

The Metatron narrowed their eyes. “Then one of us is going to have to find out.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Midfarthing? Just up the road there another couple of kilos. Five-minute drive, tops.”

“Thank you,” Asterion said to the man behind the counter and walked out of the petrol station.

He strode over to where his angelic partner, Haniel, stood awkwardly tugging at the sleeves of her jacket. She had already told him that she found the clothing here to be dreadfully uncomfortable.

“Did you find anything out?” Haniel asked as Asterion approached.

“Yes. The man says Midfarthing is…is…” Asterion’s mind suddenly went blank. After a few moments, he blinked and refocussed on Haniel. “Sorry, what?”

“Midfarthing,” Haniel said, giving him a strange look. “You were going to ask one of the humans if they knew where it was.”

“Oh, yes,” Asterion said brightly, and walked back into the petrol station.

The man behind the counter seemed very suspicious when Asterion asked him if he knew where Midfarthing was. After a bit of persuading, the man produced a large paper map and unfolded it on top of the counter.

“Look,” he said, a little sharply, and pointed to a dot on the map labelled ‘Charringford.’ “This is where we are. This is where Midfarthing is.” He moved his finger an inch to the southeast.

Asterion gazed down at the map, but his eyes didn’t register what he saw. After nearly half a minute, Asterion felt himself zone back in. “Sorry, hello there. Nice map. I was wondering if perhaps you could tell me how I could get to a place called Midfarthing?”

Five minutes later, the man was standing with his hands on Asterion’s shoulders, Haniel beside him, facing the two of them towards a road that stretched off to the southeast. “ _That_ way. Just go. Please, don’t bother me again; I have a business to run.”

A moment later, the man was gone.

Asterion and Haniel stood side by side, staring sightlessly down the road. After a long minute had passed, Haniel shook herself and turned to her partner. “Well, we should get going. We must reach Midfarthing as soon as possible. Michael said it was a most urgent mission.”

“Yes,” Asterion agreed, and they both turned back towards Charringford, the road to the southeast stretching behind them. “Let’s go this way, shall we?”

 

~~***~~

 

“Harahel,” the Metatron said loudly, striding across the gleaming marble floor of the anteroom of Heaven’s library. They were heading for the desk where its keeper sat, blocking the entranceway to the halls of books and scrolls.

Harahel looked up slowly as the Metatron arrived, a slightly irritated expression on his face. He looked even older than the last time the Metatron had seen him, several eons ago. “Yes?”

“I have come for information,” the Metatron announced as they came to a stop in front of Harahel’s desk. Much to their annoyance, the desk was quite tall, and they had to tilt their head up to see Harahel. Unwilling to be looked down upon in such a literal manner, the Metatron spread their three pairs of wings and pushed off the ground. They settled into a hover about a metre off the ground, satisfied that they were now the one looking down on Harahel.

“You can’t look at the books,” Harahel said without looking up, eyes on the volume open on his desk.

The Metatron felt a flash of anger. “You always were impertinent, Harahel,” they growled, “but I have no time for books. I have a question for you, and you had better mind that you answer it truthfully.”

Harahel slowly raised his eyes from his book and looked up at the Metatron, an expression of utter disinterest on his face. “Fine.”

“What are the ways in which a soul may gain a corporation?”

Harahel frowned coolly at the Metatron. “Perhaps this is a question better suited to Raphael. It is her department, after all.”

“I am familiar with the usual ways,” the Metatron snapped. “I would like to know the _un_ usual ways.”

Harahel sat back on the stood he was perched on, flakes of dust floating free from his folded wings. “For whom might this request be for?”

The Metatron glared at Harahel. “I am the Voice of God, Harahel, and you would do well to remember it.”

This didn’t seem to impress the librarian one bit, but he at least seemed to appreciate that the Metatron was considerably higher on the angelic totem pole than he was.

“Energy and matter are the same thing,” Harahel said blandly. “With a sufficient amount of energy applied in the right way, a corporation can be created.”

“I know the _usual_ ways, I said,” the Metatron growled.

Harahel frowned at him. “Fine, then. Here are the unusual ways.”

 

~~***~~

 

“I’ve got it!” Crowley declared triumphantly as he elbowed his way through the front door of the cottage, a bottle of brandy clasped triumphantly in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other.

Aziraphale looked up from where he was sitting in his armchair with an open book on his lap. “Oh, did you really?”

“I did indeed! Paid a fortune for it, but worth every penny!” Crowley pulled himself the rest of the way through the doorway and awkwardly pushed the door closed with his foot. When he turned back around, Aziraphale was next to him, gently tugging the bag of groceries from his arm.

Crowley let him take it and took another moment to admire the bottle of brandy in his other hand. It was a 1988 Ragnaud Sabourin Grande Champagne cognac, and one of only a few bottles left in the world.

“Do you think they’ll like it?” Crowley asked as he followed Aziraphale into the kitchen.

“I’m sure they will,” Aziraphale assured him, sliding the groceries onto the counter. He took a step towards Crowley and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome home, my dear. And thanks for stopping at the grocer’s.”

“Eh, it was on the way,” Crowley dismissed, handing Aziraphale the bottle of brandy. “What do you think? Worth a bundle of miracled money?”

Aziraphale took the bottle with an amused smile and held it up to get better light on the label. “It certainly looks the part. I can’t wait to see Bert’s face.”

“Me too,” Crowley said, taking it back from Aziraphale and admiring it all over again. “I’m so glad I thought of this.”

This particular bottle of brandy wasn’t like every other; it was a Ragnaud Sabourin cognac, and their 1988 vintage had evidently been considerably superior to other brandies from the same valley. Some time ago, Bert had told Crowley that he had once invented a drink called the Midfarthing Metropolitan, but that he couldn’t make it anymore because it had used the 1988 vintage of Ragnaud Sabourin, and the brandies from other years just didn’t bring out the hints of honey and fig quite right. Crowley had readily accepted this information and not thought any more of it until a few months ago, when he and Aziraphale had been having tea and biscuits with Donnie and _she_ had mentioned that the Midfarthing Metropolitan was how she and Bert had first really met. It had been relatively soon after her divorce from her first husband, and she had gone to the pub to drink away her sorrows.

“When I sat down,” Donnie had told them, “I must have looked particularly miserable, because Bert offered me the chance to try a drink whose recipe he was still working on. It was the Midfarthing Met, but he hadn’t come up with a name for it yet. His wife, Ann, had died seven or eight years before, but everyone in the village knew he was still working through it. He was the saddest-looking barman for counties around. And there we were, the only two people in the whole village still of marrying age who had a marriage already behind us, and we started commiserating about how we’d never find anyone else. Granted, neither of us wanted to, not at the time; we were both very fine being single, thank you very much. But even if one of us _had_ been looking for a partner, no one in the village would have had us, not with the scandal around us. But I joked that we could pretend Midfarthing was a big city, one with plenty of fish in the sea, and I told him he should name his drink the Midfarthing Metropolitan, in honour of the day Midfarthing would become a bustling metropolis and our personal lives would be nobody’s business but our own.” Donnie had smiled and taken a sip of her tea. “And though that prediction didn’t come true, it turned out there were enough fish in the sea as it was.”

Now, with Bert and Donnie’s sixth wedding anniversary rapidly approaching, Crowley had had the brilliant idea to look and see if any bottles of that particular brandy were still in existence. He had not been disappointed.

“We should put a ribbon around it,” Aziraphale suggested as he started pulling groceries from the bag. “Since it is a gift and all.”

“Good idea,” Crowley said, setting the bottle on the counter and moving to help Aziraphale. “Oh, and on my way back, I thought I noticed some auras of angels as well as demons hanging around outside of Adam’s shield.”

“Yeah, I noticed that this morning,” Aziraphale agreed. “Do you think Heaven’s looking for us, or just keeping an eye out?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, freeing a block of cheese from the bag of groceries, “but I’ll be happy when they all decide to leave us alone.”

“We could always just ask them what they want,” Aziraphale suggested. “Perhaps we can convince them to go away.”

“I doubt it,” Crowley said, pulling open the fridge and stowing the cheese inside. “For the demons, odds are they’re either working for Hell or just want to catch a glimpse of ‘Crowley the unFallen.’ Either way, they’re not going to just wander off. And I’m sure it’s a similar story for the angels.”

“There’re quite a few of them these days, though,” Aziraphale pointed out worriedly as he piled fruit into a bowl on the counter. “At first it was just a handful, but now there’re angels _and_ demons, and more of them every year. Do you think one of them will eventually figure out how to get past Adam’s shield?”

“Nah,” Crowley said confidently, returning to the bag of groceries and retrieving the jars of pasta sauce from the bottom. “They can only get past it if they already know where Midfarthing is, or are shown the way by a supernatural being who does. And that’s—what?—the two of us and _maybe_ Adam? They can try all they like, but there’s no way they’re getting through anytime soon. And even if they did…” Crowley held his arms open wide, a jar of pasta sauce still in one of his hands. “ _Seraph_. They’re not getting anywhere close without my knowing about it.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale said, drifting closer as Crowley turned to stow the pasta sauce in the cupboard. He began to wind his arms casually around Crowley’s waist. “So nothing to worry about?”

“Nope,” Crowley said cheerfully, turning in Aziraphale’s loose arms and giving his husband an indulgent kiss. “Nothing at all.”

 

~~***~~

 

The plan, which had been progressing so well, had hit a wall.

Everything had settled into place in the Metatron’s mind, but there was one small problem: Midfarthing, as Michael had suspected, was nearly impenetrable. Michael had sent a handful of his most trustworthy angels to try to gain access, but they had returned from their task uncharacteristically befuddled and uncertain as to why they had no memory of trying to carry out their mission. It seemed clear that there was strong magic at work, meaning that a direct assault would be either impossible or prohibitively difficult.

A related problem was that of who would act as the Metatron’s operative on Earth. To be able to enter Midfarthing undetected by Crowley, they would almost certainly have to be human, but even the attempts of Michael’s angels to send humans into the village on their behalf had proved fruitless. Whatever power cloaked the village, it was clever enough to repulse all attacks on it by supernatural beings, even through human proxies.

It was incredibly frustrating.

The only chink in the shield seemed to be around those who already had access—namely, Aziraphale and Crowley. The odds of one of them offering to compromise their own defences seemed incredibly slim, though.

The Metatron glowered to themself as they walked along one of the many white brick roads in Heaven, turning over the problem of how to gain knowledge of Midfarthing’s location.

As they strode closer to where the third circle turned into the fourth, the Metatron caught the sounds of distant voices from up ahead, one raised above the others. When they drew near enough to pick out a few words, the Metatron grimaced.

“—Redemption,” proclaimed the loudest voice, “as we know, comes from within, and I know that each of you has it in you!”

It was Golgoth’s speech, the one he had given two days ago in Hell. News of it had spread quickly to Heaven, and a number of enterprising, misguided angels had taken it upon themselves to memorise the transcript and repeat it to anyone within earshot.

As they neared the source of the oration, the Metatron quickened their pace, not wishing to hear the blasphemous words any more than they already had to.

“And in this new world we will create,” the orator, an eager-looking angel perched atop a chair on the roadside, continued to the small crowd of angels clustered around him, “we will all be equal, as we once were! My brothers and sisters, we can be angels again, if we only take the grace offered to us!”

A faint ripple passed through the small crowd, and one of the angels shouted something encouraging.

“Hell will be empty indeed,” the Metatron muttered under their breath as they passed the speaker, taking a slight detour from the road to avoid him. “All the devils will be here.”

“People of the Earth,” the orator continued bravely, “you will be restored to the Heavenly home that ought to have been your inheritance!”

“Fools,” the Metatron muttered as they marched steadily away from the sounds of Golgoth’s speech. “To think, not only demons in the streets but wicked humans corrupting those souls under our protection. Mingling in the heavens, ‘inheritance’ indeed…”

That was when the Metatron, mind wandering among the sea of individual heavens allotted to the righteous humans, had a revelation.

Less than half an hour later, they were flying low over the sea of individual heavens, having turned away the eyes of Azrael’s guards at the gate in order to gain entry. The Metatron wasn’t entirely certain what they were looking for, but they had a rough idea of _where_ they were looking for it. It still took another half an hour of scouring the individual heavens, though, until the Metatron found what they were looking for.

They maneuverered themself into the heaven, three sets of wings pulling back as they stepped down onto a street in what appeared to be a human city.

A shining black motor car was sitting in front of them, but the Metatron didn’t cast it a second glance, instead walking straight past it and towards the bookshop. From the name painted across its lintel, they recognised it immediately as Aziraphale’s Earth-bound base of operations, the same shop Kazariel had been ordered to guard for eighteen years.

The Metatron pulled the door open unceremoniously and strode inside, eyes sweeping over the rows of bookcases. To their surprise, many of them were empty or close to it, making the space feel even more vacant.

The Metatron was beginning to think that perhaps their idea wasn’t going to bear fruit after all when they pulled open a door at random at the rear of the shop and stepped into a completely different world.

They looked around in surprise at the interior of what appeared to be a small English cottage, furnished with a sofa, an armchair, two side tables, a couple of lamps, and multiple mostly-empty bookcases.

“It would seem the Lord _is_ on my side,” the Metatron said smugly to themself, allowing a victorious smile to cross their face. They were still grinning as they walked through the cottage and pushed open the door on the other side.

The Metatron strode past the small garden Aziraphale had once cultivated near the front of the cottage, took a deep breath, and gazed around themself in triumph. “So _this_ is Midfarthing.”

The Metatron set off down the drive and strode into the village, the quaint buildings silent apart from the rustling of the wind in the trees.

Now that they had successfully ‘visited’ Midfarthing, the Metatron knew that the village’s defences would be powerless to prevent their entry. They were still a seraph, though, and Crowley would certainly feel their approach from a mile away. They needed an intermediary, a middle man to do their dirty work for them. Angels and demons were right out of the question, because even the short amount of advance notice Crowley would receive when perceiving their aura could potentially prevent the Metatron’s plan from going smoothly.

A human would work best, but who would be easily malleable?

The Metatron was still turning this problem over in their mind when, having walked the entire length of the admittedly not very large village, they spotted a small parish church. They made a beeline for it, striding through the cemetery without even bothering to glance at the tombstones. It wasn’t long before the Metatron was striding into the nave of the church, their footsteps echoing in the space. The Metatron glanced at the rows of narrow stained glass windows as they moved further down the central aisle, eyes tracking along the sides of the building.

After a few moments, they found a door marked ‘private,’ beyond which lay a very small complex of connected rooms that served as office, sacristy, and supply closet. On the wall nearest the Metatron hung a row of framed photographs, portraits of all of the vicars of Midfarthing for the last sixty years.

The Metatron smiled in self-satisfaction and turned their gaze on the most recent of the photos, one of a friendly-looking man with a lopsided smile. ‘Gilbert,’ read the small engraved plaque at the bottom of the frame; the last name was smudged and illegible.

The Metatron considered the man’s photograph for a moment, but it was very likely that the current vicar of Midfarthing lived _in_ Midfarthing, meaning that it might be difficult to contact him without tipping Crowley off. But having someone who knew the lay of the land would be an asset.

So the Metatron took a step to the left and sized up the man in the next photograph, a fresh-faced fellow who looked a bit nervous. ‘Oswald Osprey,’ his plaque read.

The Metatron put the tip of their index finger on the glass. “Hello, Oswald,” they said with a smile. “Do you believe in angels?”

When the Metatron left Aziraphale’s heaven a few minutes later, flying low over the colourful sea of false fantasies towards the gate, they again took care to turn away the eyes of Azrael’s guards.

What they missed, however, were the eyes of a former U.S. Secretary of the Treasury, who had tailed the Metatron to Aziraphale’s heaven and settled down to wait in the next heaven over.

Alexander Hamilton watched the Metatron sail away, three sets of white wings beating in tandem, and decided that it was time to take a break from his work.

 

~~***~~

 

Beelzebub was beginning to think he shouldn’t have come.

He scanned Birmingham Cathedral Square yet again, eyes tracking suspiciously over the pedestrians busily crossing back and forth in front of him. He was sitting on the end of a bench near the edge of the paved centre of the square, one of the rear corners of the cathedral that gave Birmingham Cathedral Square its name not far in front of him. It was, to Beelzebub’s mind, a rather small and uninspiring cathedral. For one thing, it looked more like a Stuart-era administrative building than a proper cathedral, and, for another, it didn’t have any spires to speak of, only a single square tower that terminated in a small dome.

Beelzebub raked his eyes over the square again, looking for anything unusual or out of place. Earlier that day, one of the demons he had stationed outside of Midfarthing had reported that she had been approached by an angel operating in the same area. Apparently, whoever that angel was working for wished to speak with whoever _Beelzebub’s_ demon was working for, and an uneasy meeting at a neutral location had been arranged between them. Birmingham had been suggested because of its relative proximity to Midfarthing, which was the only place on Earth they both knew they had an interest in.

In theory, it was a double-blind meeting, but Beelzebub strongly suspected that whoever he was supposed to meet already knew who he was. He was seriously considering just leaving now, his suspicion that it was a trap growing stronger with every passing minute, when he felt the first impression of another aura.

Beelzebub focussed all of his attention on it until he recognised whose it was.

“Hell’s teeth,” Beelzebub swore, lurching to his feet and looking quickly around the square until he had pinpointed the direction the newcomer would arrive in, their aura already strengthening as they moved closer at a considerable clip.

Beelzebub thought about leaving right then. He could get away with relative ease, slip back into Hell and be rid of this troublesome meeting. But the same sense of frustration that had motivated him to agree to the meeting in the first place held him rooted to the spot. He had been trying to speak with Crowley for over a year now, and he knew Lucifer’s patience with his lack of success was growing thin. Surely there was no harm in just listening to what this angel had to say?

So he stayed there for another few minutes, standing alone in front of the wrought iron bench, until the angel appeared at the edge of the square and made a beeline for him.

“I suppose I should have realised it would be you,” Beelzebub said coolly as the Metatron reached him, trying to hide the fact that his skin was prickling with unease. In the ethereal plane, his three sets of wings were already extended, ready to pull him into flight at a moment’s notice. The two of them were both seraphim, meaning they would be evenly matched if it came to blows, but since the Metatron had called him here it was likely that they had a backup plan for if Beelzebub became uncooperative.

“Is that how you greet your brother?”

Beelzebub scowled. “Last I remember, you were breaking my wings as I Fell. You are no brother of mine.”

The Metatron raised their hands placatingly. “Calm yourself, Beelzebub. I come in peace.”

“Izz that so?”

“Yes. I wish only to talk.”

Beelzebub narrowed his eyes, but sat down when the Metatron gestured to the bench. The Metatron took a seat next to him.

“I noticed that you have demons stationed around Midfarthing,” the Metatron said, almost conversationally. “I thought that perhaps we could be of mutual use to each other.”

Beelzebub sat back on the bench and folded his arms. “What makes you think I would ever work with you?”

“Because those demons outside of Midfarthing have been there for the last year, and you agreed to our little meeting.”

The idea of working with the Metatron seemed reckless and extremely foolish to Beelzebub, not to mention hideously unpleasant, but he reminded himself that there was no harm in just hearing them out. Besides, he might be able to get an idea of what the Metatron was after. “What did you have in mind?”

The Metatron placed their fingertips together. “I think it’s safe to say that there is something in Midfarthing that you want. Some _one_.”

Beelzebub narrowed his eyes, arms still folded. “Perhapzz.”

“What would you say if I told you I could get that someone for you, for a price?”

Beelzebub eyed the Metatron suspiciously. “How do you intend on getting past the village’s defences?”

“That is no concern of yours,” the Metatron said, a little curtly. “But I assure you that I can provide you with the object of your desire within twenty-four hours.”

Beelzebub bit the inside of his cheek. “What would be the price?”

The Metatron smiled. “Assistance.”

Beelzebub stiffened. “I will not betray Hell, if that is what you—”

He broke off as the Metatron raised their hand. “I am aware. It is assistance with a personal matter.”

Beelzebub frowned. Elsewhere in the square, someone had started playing upbeat workout music.

“You are aware,” the Metatron said delicately, “that, in Eden, resides the Tree of Life.”

Beelzebub didn’t like where this was going at all, but remained silent.

“The Tree is warded,” the Metatron continued. “A minimum of two seraphim is required to overcome that warding. I would require your assistance in this matter.”

Beelzebub continued frowning at the Metatron. “Why do you want to get to the Tree of Life?”

The Metatron took a deep breath and settled back on the bench. “Why do you think? It confers eternal life.”

Beelzebub nodded, thinking over the offer. On the one hand, having a permanently immortal Metatron running around would be a pain, but on the other the Metatron had lived this long as it was, and it didn’t look like that would be changing anytime soon. He thought about Lucifer, who had charged him with finding Crowley, and how pleased he would be if Beelzebub finally returned to Hell with him. It really didn’t seem like such a bad deal.

“I take it you know where Eden is?” Beelzebub asked at last. “And you can guarantee my safety to and from it?”

“Of course,” the Metatron said. “And I take it that it is Crowley you want?”

Beelzebub gazed at the back of the cathedral and, after a moment, nodded.

“I can get him,” the Metatron said, “but I may not be able to restrain him. He is a seraph as well, after all.”

Beelzebub shot the Metatron a suspicious look.

“For our _mutual_ benefit,” the Metatron stressed, “I would require some form of physical restraint for Crowley, perhaps handcuffs or rope, imbued with enough power to keep his magic in check.”

“I suppose you would need my help with those too?”

“I would be responsible for delivering Crowley to you,” the Metatron said tersely. “I have no qualms about releasing him into your custody unrestrained, but it will not be my fault if he simply runs off at the first opportunity. It is safer for us all to keep him muzzled.”

Beelzebub frowned, not sure if he liked the direction the conversation was headed.

“In any case,” the Metatron said, taking a calming breath and steepling their fingers together again, “since the restraints will be largely for your benefit, you will procure them. I cannot risk that my signature be seen on an object alongside yours, so you will have to find someone else to help you make them. I imagine Lucifer has nothing better to be doing these days.”

Beelzebub let out a low buzzing noise. “Do not speak ill of my king.”

The Metatron stood. “I assure you, I have no such intention. Oh, and one more caveat.” They turned back to Beelzebub as he made his way to his feet as well. “You can do whatever you like with Crowley, but I remind you that he _is_ technically an angel, and therefore under Heaven’s protection. So behave yourself and refrain from killing him, would you?”

“I think I can manage,” Beelzebub buzzed coldly. He had half a mind to turn the Metatron down now, just so he could say he’d never worked with such an arrogant prick.

The Metatron held out their hand. “Do we have an agreement?”

Beelzebub eyed the Metatron’s offered hand. It seemed like a deal with the devil—and this from Lucifer’s right-hand man—but he knew that, had he had any other idea whatsoever of how to get his hands on Crowley, he wouldn’t have been here in the first place. But here he was, and Lucifer’s order to him was bright in his mind.

Beelzebub shook the Metatron’s hand. “We do.”


	6. Objects in the Rear View Mirror

Oswald Osbert Osprey was in a righteous sort of mood.

He had marched his way straight up to Bishop Igness’s office, demanded (politely) to be seen at once, and explained in no uncertain terms that the man currently holding the title of vicar in the village of Midfarthing was preaching anything _but_ the word of God.

After a ten-minute tirade by Oswald on every point upon which he had found error, Bishop Igness had stood, walked calmly around his desk, put his hands on Oswald’s shoulders, and told him kindly that nothing was amiss in Midfarthing. Father Gilbert, evidently, was “doing the Lord’s work.”

Oswald had only been able to gasp indignantly, and his words had failed him again when the bishop had kindly suggested that he take a leave of absence to clear his head.

 _A leave of absence_ —like being able to sleep in on Sunday mornings was going to make all the blasphemies that heretic was spewing suddenly evaporate.

“I’ll take it to the province,” Oswald muttered fiercely to himself as he poured a shot of Smirnoff into the cup of tea he had made. “To the Archbishop. All the way to the top. That heretic is giving a bad name to us all, to the Church, to _God_ —”

Oswald broke off roughly as an incredible burst of white light exploded into being in his sitting room. In an instant, the kitchen was thrown into deep shadow, brilliant beams of light streaming in through the doorway leading to the sitting room. At the same moment, the floor began rumbling under Oswald’s feet, every piece of ceramic in his kitchen rattling as though in an earthquake. Oswald dropped the bottle of vodka.

It shattered as it hit the floor, the overhead light in the kitchen flickering dimly as the rattling of his china increased in intensity. Oswald grabbed onto the counter, stepped over the remains of the glass Smirnoff bottle, and staggered into the sitting room, where a supernova had taken up residence.

Behind him, Oswald dimly registered the sound of more of his china smashing against his kitchen floor. Oswald sank onto the ugly, slightly dirty carpet of his sitting room and groped blindly for the arm of his sofa. He clung to it as he stared, eyes wide and watering, at the ball of light hovering before him.

The earthquake began to subside slightly, the sounds of rattling from his kitchen growing quieter as the floor settled into a vibrating hum, as though someone had set up a very loud stereo nearby. The brightness of the light didn’t diminish, and though he could feel it burning at his eyes, Oswald couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away.

 _“OSWALD OSBERT OSPREY,”_ rumbled a voice from the general direction of the ball of light, beautiful and terrible at the same time. Its words were punctuated by the sounds of the beads on the chain pull of the closest of Oswald’s lamps rattling together. _“MAN OF GOD.”_

Oswald stared into the ball of light, petrified. “Y—yes,” he squeaked, mind flashing back to the stories of Ezekiel, Tobias, and Mary.

_“LATELY THE VICAR OF MIDFARTHING?”_

This might have seemed an odd question to Oswald, except that at that moment he made out the brilliant outlines of three sets of wings on the edges of the ball of light. His voice failed him, and he only nodded mutely, the floor still thrumming beneath him.

 _“I AM AN ANGEL OF HEAVEN, THE VOICE OF GOD,”_ the ball of light rumbled. _“AND I HAVE A JOB FOR YOU.”_

“A—Anything,” Oswald stammered. A small voice in the back of his head told him matter-of-factly that he had gone absolutely mad, and that he’d be waking up in the asylum any minute now.

The ball of light shifted and Oswald dimly saw a hand cast a pair of handcuffs onto the carpet in front of him. Oswald stared at them as they bounced to a halt less than a metre away, white smoke rolling off their polished metal surfaces. They looked like completely ordinary handcuffs to him, of the type used by coppers to catch criminals, but there were rings of arcane symbols carved around the edges and two peculiar circular symbols on the flat bases of the cuffs, next to the keyholes.

The ball of light shifted again, its brightness intensifying slightly. Oswald gazed back at the angel, eyes straining but no longer burning despite the brilliance of the light.

 _“NOW, OSWALD,”_ the disembodied voice rumbled, _“LISTEN VERY CAREFULLY…”_

 

~~***~~

 

“And _then_ ,” Bert continued, leaning over the bar slightly, eyes bright, “Lyle Taylor came in from the side and kicked one in the corner and the goalkeeper lunged in _completely_ the wrong direction, and it was _truly_ a thing of beauty.”

“I’ll bet!” Aziraphale exclaimed, taking another sip of his wine.

“And then the last minute ran out and they won by that one-point margin,” Bert finished smugly, leaning back with a grin. “It was fantastic.”

“You think every football game is fantastic,” Crowley commented wryly, draining his glass.

“Not true!” Bert said quickly. “Only the ones we _win_ are fantastic.”

Aziraphale laughed as Crowley sat back and reached into his pocket for his mobile.

“Since you mentioned it,” Crowley said, “there’s this great video I saw earlier…”

He continued to reach into his trousers pocket but his fingers met only air and fabric. He made a show of patting himself down, frowning.

“Hang on…” Crowley felt around in his pockets again. “Have I forgotten my mobile at home?”

“It was on the counter this morning,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“Ah, I must have forgotten to grab it,” Crowley said. He allowed his frown to deepen. “Bugger, I’ll run back and grab it quick, shall I?”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Bert said quickly. “It’s no bother.”

“Nah, it’s all right,” Crowley said, standing up and straightening out his jacket. “It’s a short walk, and I’ll need it later anyway. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a quick peck on the cheek, double-checked that he had his keys, and made his way out of the pub.

He allowed himself an indulgent smile as he patted his mobile where it was sitting snugly inside his inner jacket pocket. It was a beautiful day for a stroll, the noontime sun peeking out from between the scattered clouds and illuminating every ivy leaf and blade of grass with warm August sunlight.

Crowley reached the cottage without incident, strolling inside and walking straight into the kitchen, where he’d left Bert and Donnie’s anniversary present that morning. He and Aziraphale had known that they’d be tied up in the village for most of the morning, so they had agreed to leave the present here and then fetch it later, when they were ready to give it to Bert, under the pretence of Crowley having forgotten his mobile.

Crowley swept the bottle of brandy off the counter and admired it one last time, tweaking the blue ribbon Aziraphale had wrapped around it, complete with bow. The plan was to give it to Bert first, and then encourage him to make a Midfarthing Metropolitan for Donnie later that evening; the brandy itself wouldn’t mean as much to her as the drink would, but they knew that Bert would appreciate seeing the original bottle and opening it himself.

Whistling a little, and very off-key, Crowley nestled the bottle in the crook of his arm and made his way out of the cottage. He locked the door behind him with a wave of his free hand and strolled out into the street, heading back towards the village.

He never even saw the car.

 

~~***~~

 

“And _that_ ,” Aziraphale said, picking up his glass of wine, “is precisely why I _don’t_ go to football matches in person.”

“But it’s half the fun!” Bert protested.

“Really, you think that being surrounded by young men swearing like sailors—” All the air left Aziraphale’s lungs at once, his words abruptly dying in his throat. He didn’t even register the wineglass slipping from his numb fingers, didn’t see it bounce slightly as it hit the counter and be caught by Bert’s quick but clumsy hands, splashing wine over the bar but keeping the glass intact.

Aziraphale’s head swivelled unerringly in the direction of the cottage he and Crowley shared, and, without another word, he half-jumped off the barstool and bolted for the door.

“A—Ziraphale!” Bert shouted after him.

Aziraphale crashed through the pub door and out into the sunlight, feet skidding on the pavement as he started sprinting down the street towards the cottage. The pieces of their souls that Crowley and Aziraphale had given each other were useful for more than just letting Aziraphale know whenever Crowley was thinking of him—they conveyed each other’s health and emotions, and right now Crowley was in trouble.

“Ziraphale!” Bert’s voice shouted from behind him again, but Aziraphale ignored him, forcing his legs to carry him faster.

Crowley’s pain was beginning to register properly, manifesting itself as a pounding in Aziraphale’s head and hip and a searing in his right arm, tingles shooting through his elbow.

He was running past the corner shop when he abruptly felt his access to Crowley’s powers—the powers of a seraph, granted to Aziraphale through their shared souls—shut off.

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat and then jumped into his throat and stayed there as a fresh wave of fear and adrenaline surged through him. Crowley was still alive, he could feel that much, but that was the only certainty he could grasp onto, and he didn’t know if even that would be true in five minutes’ time.

When Aziraphale finally rounded the last corner and started running flat-out down Somerset Lane, he saw the blood long before he reached it.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted as he skidded to a halt next to the first of the smears of blood dotting the pavement in a horribly asymmetric pattern, only a few dozen metres from their own cottage’s front door. Crowley wasn’t here, that much was clear, but Aziraphale could tell he was still nearby, somewhere, and in a great deal of pain, the sensation mounting—

Aziraphale’s breaths were coming quick and fast, and he was growing dizzy, head ringing and chest tight. _Crowley, Crowley, oh God—_

Aziraphale’s eyes riveted themselves on the smashed remains of the brandy bottle lying nearby, the blue ribbon Aziraphale had so lovingly tied around it this morning soaked in alcohol and dotted with flecks of blood.

“Zirapha—what—oh, _Christ!”_

Aziraphale dimly registered Bert staggering out into the lane after him, similarly skidding to a halt as he took in the scene.

“Is this—was this—?” Bert stammered.

Aziraphale gasped in another breath, struggling to fight the panic threatening to overwhelm him. His eyes had moved to the other blood splatters—none dangerously large, thank God, but bright red and glimmering in the sunlight—and his mind set about reconstructing the accident, pinpointing where Crowley must have been standing, how he had been thrown backwards by the impact, first hitting here, and then _here_ —

“Ziraphale, is this—is it—?” Bert had moved closer, breathing heavily and seeming entirely incapable of voicing his question.

Aziraphale could barely hear the barman, mind still recreating the awful accident in front of himself—but this had been no accident. If it had been an accident, there would have been a body, damaged but able to be healed, and there would have been a car, and Aziraphale would have still been able to feel Crowley’s powers and harness them in his partner’s aid—no, whoever had done this had _taken_ Crowley, had somehow _stripped_ him of his powers and then _disappeared_ —

Around the ringing in his head, Aziraphale finally registered that he could still sense Crowley’s general location, moving rapidly away from him but close enough for him to still feel Crowley’s aura—the aura of a seraph, stretching for over a mile.

Bert was talking to him again but Aziraphale didn’t give him another thought, breaking into a sprint and detouring around the smears of Crowley’s blood littering the asphalt. He didn’t stop until he had reached the Bentley, which was parked in its usual spot just outside their cottage.

Aziraphale’s hand trembled as he yanked the driver’s door open and threw himself inside, impatiently waving a hand to start the engine. It took him a precious moment of staring at the unresponsive car to remember that that wouldn’t work anymore, his connection to Crowley’s powers broken. He swore and dove for the glove compartment, tearing it open and pawing out classical music cassettes until his hand closed around the spare key.

As he shoved it into the ignition, he distantly registered that Bert was standing next to the driver’s door and saying something to him, but, again, Aziraphale tuned him out.

Crowley was behind him somewhere, his aura growing fainter by the second. Aziraphale threw the Bentley into reverse and slammed on the accelerator. He heard the scrape of the hedge bordering the road rubbing against the Bentley’s pristine paint, but Aziraphale didn’t give it a second thought, veering into the centre of the narrow road as soon as he was clear of the smears of blood. He had to run down the road in reverse for another thirty metres before there was a break in the hedge wide enough for him to swing the Bentley into a recklessly sharp three-point turn. He threw the vintage automobile into first gear before it had even fully stopped rolling backwards, and the transmission protested as Aziraphale rammed it up into second long before it was ready.

He was streaking out of Midfarthing under a minute later, following the faint impression of Crowley’s presence somewhere ahead of him, to the west.

As Aziraphale passed the place where he knew the edge of Adam’s shield over the village lay, he felt Crowley’s aura shift slightly, moving slightly more northwest.

A minute later, Aziraphale realised that whoever had taken Crowley must have got onto the M5, one of England’s largest motorways, running north-south from Exeter to Birmingham and then transitioning into the M6, which ran all the way up to Scotland.

Aziraphale rammed the Bentley up into third gear and then fourth, but Crowley’s aura was dwindling faster than Aziraphale could make up the lost time, leaving nothing more concrete than faint impressions.

By the time he reached the M5, Crowley’s aura had all but faded completely, the last few traces lying somewhere ahead of him, to the north.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered hoarsely, struggling to reach across the bridge between their souls. “Oh, my dear, please, just hang on.”

 

~~***~~

 

Crowley felt his consciousness surface as the ground dropped away beneath him and then slammed back into him.

He clawed himself further into awareness, head spinning and vision black. He was very nauseous, and there was a panic in his gut, raw and immediate. He shifted slightly as the world careened around him again, and he nearly blacked out as his right arm erupted in pain.

The ringing in Crowley’s head increased, vision blurring red around the edges, and he let himself just stay there for a moment, struggling to gasp in a ragged breath.

He fished around inside of himself for the power he knew lay dormant there, hoping to heal himself, but he couldn’t quite reach it. He could still feel it there, coiled inside of him, but when he reached for it he felt like he was running up against a wall, as though it were encased in glass.

Crowley kept trying, desperation mounting, until the world bounced again and his hip joined in with the burning in his arm and head, tingles of pain running down the outside of his thigh and biting deep. He groaned, felt his breath catch again, and gave up trying to reach for his power, exhausted even by the effort.

The world felt close and heavy around him, the air stale and warm. His vision was still black, but he couldn’t tell if that was because his eyes weren’t working or because it was dark.

Crowley’s thoughts were jumbled and kept falling over each other for precedence, and the only truism he could cling to was the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be here. The worry in his gut increased, panic gripping him and making his head spin faster.

“O—ow,” Crowley moaned uselessly, shivering and registering for the first time that his front and side were soaked, something sticky making his shirt cling to his chest.

His mind went hazily to Aziraphale, and his right hand groped sightlessly towards his left. His hands were lying very close to each other already, and he felt something cold press against his wrists as his right arm exploded with pain at the movement. He almost blacked out again, feeling like someone had taken a hammer to his elbow, pain jolting along his nerves and stealing his breath.

After a long moment of hyperventilating and feeling like the darkness was going to stifle him, Crowley moved his left hand slightly, so that the fingers of his right were brushing his wedding ring, still securely on his fourth finger where it always was. He pressed his fingers against its reassuring surface and felt his eyes slide closed as the world jolted again.

His head was spinning when the world bounced one last time and finally rolled to a stop. The cessation of motion was wonderful, and Crowley sucked in a grateful, rattling breath, mind groggily monitoring the progress of a bead of something warm and wet making its way along his scalp.

There was a loud noise from very near his head, accompanied by the sound of muted voices. Crowley was considering blacking out again when there was a loud click from nearby and the sky opened up above him.

Early afternoon sunlight streamed into Crowley’s eyes, and he squeezed them shut instinctively as he tried to shy away, breath tightening in his chest.

“…as promised,” an unfamiliar voice said matter-of-factly.

Crowley forced his eyes open, squinting up at three dark shapes looming over him, the sun blocked by the head of the middle figure.

“Oh, he’s come to,” continued the same voice. “Oswald.”

Crowley’s eyes drifted muzzily to the shape on the right as it shifted. There was something hovering in front of its chest, Crowley noted distantly, a silver cross fashioned in the Greek style, where each arm was the same length. Crowley thought he heard another voice make a noise almost like a protest, but all of his flagging attention was captivated by the silver cross-shaped object. It twisted blurrily in Crowley’s vision as something dark rapidly approached his head, and then he knew nothing more.

 

~~***~~

 

Aziraphale’s mobile was ringing again.

It wasn’t Crowley’s number; he had checked immediately the first time it had rung, the safety of the other traffic on the road be damned. He very much doubted it was Crowley this time either, but he allowed the Bentley to slow, veering across several lanes of traffic without indicating and coming to a stop on the hard shoulder, which was usually only for emergency stopping.

His mobile had stopped ringing by the time he’d brought the Bentley to a halt, engine wheezing and petrol indicator dangerously low, and Aziraphale took a moment to just catch his breath, feeling a heaviness in his sinuses. He’d lost Crowley’s aura over an hour ago, and had been following the M5, turning back, and veering off onto various intersecting motorways ever since, struggling and failing to regain even the slightest impression of his beloved. For a moment he thought he’d felt something like Crowley reaching out to him, but the sensation had vanished as quickly as it had come. The only thing he had left was the taste of Crowley’s pain and something like motion sickness, but that might not have been coming from Crowley at all.

Aziraphale folded his arms over the Bentley’s steering wheel and laid his forehead against the backs of his wrists, sucking in deep breath after deep breath. The Bentley had done her very best, but, without the help of Crowley’s magic, she was nearly a century old and it showed. Between that and the head start…Aziraphale had lost Crowley before he’d even started.

He pressed his forehead harder against his wrists, fighting to rein in his panic and growing feeling of despair, struggling to think logically and come up with a new plan of action. But all his mind kept returning to was the fact that he had promised to protect Crowley, that he had _vowed_ to protect him when they had been wed. It also didn’t help any that Crowley had taped a photo of the two of them at St James’s to the Bentley’s dashboard, easily viewable from the driver’s seat.

When Aziraphale’s mobile rang again, he accepted the call.

“What?” he asked flatly, sitting back heavily in the driver’s seat as traffic flashed past him on the M5.

“Ziraphale?” It was Bert. “Are—are you okay?”

Aziraphale stared up at the sky above the Bentley’s windscreen, the brilliant blue expanse dotted with candyfloss clouds. “Yeah.”

“Did you—did you find—?”

Aziraphale’s eyes dropped back to the steering wheel. “No.”

“Oh. I—I’m—are you coming back?”

Aziraphale continued staring at the steering wheel.

“Aziraphale?”

“I lost him,” Aziraphale forced out, voice threatening to betray him. “I could feel him, but then—he got too far ahead, and I couldn’t keep up, and I—”

“It’s not your fault,” Bert told him quickly. “He was—um, he was kidnapped, right? That’s what happened?”

“…yeah,” Aziraphale said, putting his free hand back on the steering wheel and looking down at his knees. “I don’t know who did it. I couldn’t get close enough to feel another aura, just Crowley’s.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “I was close enough, there at the beginning. I should have been able to catch up, I should have—”

“They got away,” Bert’s voice interrupted from Aziraphale’s mobile. “Right? We’ll find Crowley another way. There’s no sense in just driving around in circles.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, letting Bert’s words sink in. “Yeah,” he forced himself to agree. “Yes, that’s sensible. Regroup, evaluate the facts, and form a plan.”

“Er,” Bert’s voice said. “Yeah. That.”

Aziraphale nodded to himself and forced his eyes open. The sense of urgency was still eating at his core and turning his stomach, and he could still feel Crowley’s injuries, but he knew that they were influencing him and making him act irrationally. Yes, Crowley was in trouble, but following his gut wasn’t going to help him anymore—it was his head he needed to listen to now if he wanted to have a chance of actually finding Crowley.

“I—I’m on my way back,” Aziraphale told Bert, putting the Bentley back in gear and waiting, eyes on the wing mirror, for a good time to pull back out into traffic.

“Oh. …good,” Bert said, sounding relieved. “I’ll, er, just be here, then.”

Aziraphale hung up and tossed the phone onto the passenger’s seat. “Follow your head,” Aziraphale reminded himself under his breath. It had never been hard for him before; he had always chosen the well-thought-out plan over the impulsive one that was likely to go awry. But it wasn’t quite the same now that he could feel Crowley’s pain gnawing away at him, and when he pulled out into traffic and prepared to turn around at the next available opportunity, turning his back on where he had last felt Crowley’s aura, it really did feel like he was giving up on Crowley altogether.

 

~~***~~

 

The stretch of road in front of Aziraphale and Crowley’s cottage was still splattered with blood when Aziraphale returned, though blue and white crime scene tape had been put up around it. Luckily, the police officer responsible was nowhere in sight.

Aziraphale parked the Bentley a safe distance away and grabbed his mobile from its spot on the passenger’s seat. Though he was almost certain that Crowley was still unconscious, he had tried phoning him several times on the way back, hoping that maybe the incoming call would rouse him. Each time, though, Crowley’s phone only rang twice before going to voicemail. The first time he called, the sound of Crowley’s recorded voice on the voicemail message sent Aziraphale’s heart into his throat, but he still managed to leave a stammered message, telling Crowley that he loved him, was doing his best to find him, and hoped he was safe.

Now, Aziraphale shoved his mobile into his pocket and strode past the blue and white crime scene tape, keeping his eyes from straying towards the cordoned-off area only with immense effort. It didn’t help any that every other footfall shot pain up his right hip, Crowley’s injuries still echoing through his body.

When Aziraphale entered his front garden, he found Bert sitting on the stoop. The barman looked up as Aziraphale neared and scrambled to his feet.

“Ziraphale, there you are! The police want to talk to you…”

“The police won’t find Crowley,” Aziraphale said flatly, walking past Bert and fishing his keys out of his pocket.

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Bert offered. “I told them I didn’t think you’d be back until tomorrow.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said, unlocking the front door and letting himself in. Bert trailed after him uncertainly.

“Who do you think did it?” Bert asked hesitantly. “An angel, a demon, or a human?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said shortly, crossing to the bookcases near the fireplace and beginning to rifle through them.

“Er…do you have any ideas?”

“Whoever it was didn’t just take Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his fingers flying over the spines of his books before moving onto the next shelf. “They removed his powers somehow. Restrained him or something. And Crowley’s a seraph, so that should be practically impossible.” Aziraphale ran his eyes over the row of books and moved on to the next, fingers dancing hastily across the spines.

“So…how did they do it, then?” Bert asked, sounding a little confused. “Take away his powers, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said again, forcing himself to take a little more care as he roughly pushed several books to one side. Two of them, _An Historical Narrative of Our Lord Lucifer’s Fall_ and _Inner Workings of Angelicy_ , chirped at him worriedly. “Theoretically, if whoever is behind this has an object with more power than a seraph, then they could harness it to create a binding spell.”

“Do you know if he’s okay?” Bert asked, switching tacks and edging a little closer, real worry flooding his tone. “Is there…is there anyone who wants him…um…”

“Wants him dead?” Aziraphale finished, lying his hand flat on the spines of _An Historical Narrative_ and _Inner Workings_ , trying to reassure them as much as himself. “Probably. We broke out of Heaven, and then considering what he did to Hell…” Aziraphale took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes to steady himself, head pounding. “But whoever took him did it for a reason. He’s still alive, and they bothered to restrain him. This was a very carefully planned kidnapping. I don’t think Crowley had any warning, else he could have defended himself.”

“So someone wants him for something?” Bert guessed. “Wants him to…do something for them?”

Aziraphale took another deep breath and moved to the next bookcase over. “Presumably. He’ll be safe for a little while, at least, until they tell him what they want him to do. If he agrees to do whatever it is they want, then we have even more time. But if he refuses…” Aziraphale didn’t finish the thought.

“So we’ll find him as soon as possible,” Bert said. “Are you sure you don’t want the police to help? We can make a big fuss, see if they’ll put a missing persons alert out for him.”

“There are a couple of ways to track someone,” Aziraphale said by way of answer, rifling through yet another shelf of books and finally finding what he was looking for. “Most of them require magic, but as long as Crowley doesn’t have his powers I’m about as useless as a human.”

Bert started to make an insulted noise, and then apparently thought better of it.

“Luckily,” Aziraphale said, pulling the rectangular mirror off of the bookshelf and wiping the thin layer of dust from its surface with the palm of his hand, “I’ve been powerless before, and even then I had a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Bert moved closer, casting the mirror a curious glance as Aziraphale finished wiping the dust off its surface.

“A mirror?”

“A spell,” Aziraphale corrected. “It allows you to view anyone on Earth.” When Aziraphale had been trapped in Heaven following his mortal death, he had used this mirror to keep an eye on Crowley while he mourned him. After Crowley had learned he was a seraph, he had gone back up to Aziraphale’s heaven and retrieved a great deal of his possessions, including the mirror and most of the contents of his original Soho bookshop. Though while in Heaven Aziraphale’s possessions had been wholly ethereal, Crowley had used a powerful spell to transfer them into the physical plane, as a gift for Aziraphale.

“What, like a crystal ball?” Bert asked, sounding impressed. “Or a scrying spell?”

Aziraphale cast him a sideways glance. “I’m not telling the future, if that’s what you mean. But it _will_ show me the present.” Aziraphale directed his attention back to the mirror and cleared his throat. “ _Animach lez bezoat kadail acht-she etama ezarut kadalia outliech kodamatz enital ayl_. Show me Crowley, the Serpent of Eden.”

The surface of the mirror shimmered and cleared a moment later to reveal nothing more enlightening than Aziraphale’s own reflection. Bert peered over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “What’s happening? Is something happening?”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “I was afraid of that. He’s—he’s not on Earth anymore.”

Bert looked sharply up at Aziraphale and then back down at the mirror. “Maybe it’s just broken,” he suggested.

“Show me Bertrand Marley,” Aziraphale said.

The mirror shimmered again, and this time when it cleared it was showing the very room they were in, but from a completely different perspective. From the mirror, they were looking down at themselves, as though watching a security feed from a camera mounted on the ceiling.

“That’s _barmy_ ,” Bert said, leaning closer to the mirror in astonishment. Aziraphale handed it to him and fished his mobile from his pocket. Bert started walking around the room, holding the mirror in different directions and making small, excited noises when the figure in the mirror moved to copy him. “Show me, oh…James Harper.”

Aziraphale scrolled through the contacts on his phone and selected Kazariel’s name. He put the phone to his ear. When she picked up on the second ring, Aziraphale sent a quiet prayer of thanks to Anyone who might be listening.

“Aziraphale, is that you?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, sinking onto the sofa and trying not to think about how much time he had spent on it next to Crowley. “I need your help.”

Bert cast Aziraphale a questioning look, but when Aziraphale ignored him he went back to poking curiously at the mirror.

“Anything,” Kazariel said. “Are you in trouble?”

“Crowley is,” Aziraphale said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Someone, I—I don’t know who, took him.”

There was a brief moment of silence. “By ‘took,’” Kazariel said after a moment, “do you mean…”

“I mean they hit him with a car and kidnapped him,” Aziraphale said, perhaps a bit more tersely than absolutely necessary. It seemed that the more times he had to explain it, the more it sounded like something Aziraphale should have been able to easily prevent.

“Oh, no! Oh, Aziraphale, I’m so sorry. What can I do to help? Do you have any idea who it was? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admitted heavily. “They took him north but he’s not on Earth anymore, that’s all I know. He’s alive, but…”

“Do you think it was someone in Heaven?” Kazariel asked, sounding horrified.

“I _don’t know_ ,” Aziraphale said again, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees, resting his forehead on the hand not holding his phone. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so useless and powerless, and he hated the sensation. He ought to be out there right now, scouring Heaven and Hell himself until he found Crowley, not sitting here chatting about it. “They—I don’t know how they did it, but they took away his powers. So either someone very powerful was involved, or they have an artefact that allowed them to make a spell.”

“They—they did _what?”_ Kazariel’s voice grew closer and lower, and he imagined her hissing into her mobile. “They took away his _powers?_ He’s a _seraph!”_

“I—I know,” Aziraphale said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “It was premeditated. It has to have been. There have been angels and demons outside of Midfarthing for months now, and we thought they were just watching us, but maybe they were planning something…”

Bert’s head swung around at this, but, again, Aziraphale ignored him.

“I don’t know anything about angels,” Kazariel said, “but Beelzebub has had people watching Midfarthing for over a year now, and there are some other demons that go up to visit them sometimes. The ones who are trying to be Redeemed.”

Aziraphale nodded. Beelzebub—that was something he could work with. “Do you know anyone else—anyone in Heaven, maybe—who might want to hurt Crowley? Or have something to be gained by…I don’t know…holding him hostage or making him do something?”

“He’s a _seraph_ , Aziraphale,” Kazariel said, sounding a little incredulous. “If you had enough leverage to keep him from just obliterating you when you take away whatever spell you’re using to render him powerless, then you could make him do just about anything.”

Aziraphale took a deep, shaking breath, more worried than ever. Some days, it seemed, the downsides of being a seraph, or being married to one, greatly outweighed the benefits. “Most people wouldn’t have that kind of leverage,” Aziraphale said, pressing his eyes shut. “And this wasn’t just _premeditated_ , it was very carefully _executed_. It was professionally done. It has to be someone near the top. If they just wanted the power of a seraph, they could have gone after the Metatron if they were an angel, or Lucifer or Beelzebub if they were a demon. We’re hidden here in Midfarthing. It was deliberately _Crowley_ they took.” Aziraphale drew another deep breath, trying to blot out the feeling of his right arm steadily going numb. “And no one should have been able to get into Midfarthing in the first place.”

“Someone near the top,” Kazariel repeated. “Well, a few of the archangels are still a bit sour about Redemption, but I don’t think any of them would do anything like this.”

“Who are the holdouts?” Aziraphale asked, bracing himself for a list of suspects.

“Michael,” Kazariel suggested. “Jophiel, _maybe_ Gabriel. They can all be reasonable, though Michael has definitely had it out for Crowley for a while. It was his idea that Crowley be…um…tortured, before you Fell.”

Aziraphale nodded, accepting this information numbly. The memory of an absent Crowley being actively tortured while Aziraphale planned a way to rescue him was uncomfortably close to his current situation.

“And of course there are some angels further down the chain, but I can’t think of anyone who would have a personal grudge against Crowley. As a symbol, though…I mean, he’s kind of the leader of this revolution.”

“Great,” Aziraphale said, looking blankly down at the edge of the fireplace.

“I’m sorry,” Kazariel said. “It’s about the same story in Hell, from what I can tell, but there are fewer demons who are brave enough to speak out against Redemption. Some of them are definitely being sullen about it, but they know popular opinion is against them. Golgoth has really swayed them over to his side.”

“What about the archdemons?”

There was a brief pause. “Asmodeus was the main holdout,” Kazariel said after a moment, “but she seems to have really switched sides. After Lucifer declared his surrender, a lot of resistance crumbled.”

“Lucifer,” Aziraphale, latching onto the name as though an investigation of this one might prove more fruitful than the others. “What’s he up to these days?”

“Not much,” Kazariel admitted. “Spends a lot of time shut up in the ninth circle. Has enough public appearances to make it clear that he’s not planning on doing anything about Redemption, and then holes up again. Beelzebub is a bit more active, but there aren’t any credible rumours that either one of them is planning on undermining Golgoth.”

“You said Beelzebub had sent demons to Midfarthing,” Aziraphale said. “Do you know why?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “No one will say, but I think the consensus is that it has something to do with Crowley. Beelzebub himself went to Earth a couple of times to oversee them.”

Aziraphale drew a breath, feeling beset by enemies on every side.

“Do you…do you want me to look around?” Kazariel asked. “I’ve been in Hell a lot lately but I’m in Heaven right now, giving a report. I can get some angels together and we can ask around. Auras can get a little muddied with so many angels around, but if we’re looking we might be able to notice if he’s nearby.”

“That would be great,” Aziraphale said, genuinely grateful, “but try to keep this to as few people as possible. Like you said, Crowley’s a symbol now, and he doesn’t have his powers. I don’t want him being found by the wrong people.”

“Oh, of course!” Kazariel agreed quickly. “I’ll put only my best angels on it.”

“There are a couple of other people you could recruit,” Aziraphale said, thinking back. “They’ll be able to cover a lot of ground and get into places your angels won’t be allowed.”

“Really?” Kazariel asked. “Who?”

“They’re human souls,” Aziraphale explained, “and they’re incredibly resourceful. The one you’ll want to talk to is called Ludwig II, he was the king of—”

“Oh, _them?”_ Kazariel asked. “The infamous troublemakers?”

Aziraphale blinked. “You know them?”

“Azrael’s been pulling her hair out about them for ages. They’re helping reform the system of heavens.”

“Well, good,” Aziraphale said. “They might be willing to help. Tell them I asked.”

“I will.”

“Phone me immediately if you find anything out,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his forehead. “Thank you so much for your help.”

“Of course! I don’t have as many contacts in Hell, but do you want me to look there too?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and sat back on the sofa, hand falling back to his lap. “I’ll take care of that.”


	7. The Eden Job

Crowley felt himself come to as the warm tingles of supernatural healing passed through him, flowing from his shoulder through his aching body. His first, instinctive thought was that Aziraphale must have found him, but when he felt for his partner’s presence he found a different one instead, powerful and unfamiliar.

Alarmed, Crowley sucked in a deep breath and dragged himself the rest of the way to consciousness, head shooting up and eyes snapping open.

“Ger’off,” he gasped, trying to lurch away from whoever was touching him. The warm tingles abruptly stopped, but the hand on his shoulder moved to his chest, pinning him back against something as Crowley’s vision cleared.

“Beelz,” a spine-chilling voice said in warning, and Crowley looked up and into the face of Lucifer himself.

A bolt of fear shot through Crowley and he immediately tried to throw himself to the side again, hoping to flee as soon as possible. This time the hand wasn’t on his chest, but he felt an invisible force push him backwards. He realised distractedly that his wings were manifested, the tips of his feathers brushing against the floor as he was shoved roughly back down onto what seemed to be a chair.

“Just—stay there,” Beelzebub said tersely.

Crowley sucked in another breath, pain muddling his thoughts as his eyes darted around him. They were at the end of a very long, darkened hall, the walls lined with engaged columns carved from gleaming black obsidian. His eyes adjusted quickly despite the darkness, and he made out the silhouette of a throne not far in front of him.

More pressing, however, was the figure of Lucifer standing only a metre away from him, expression interested and three huge black wings folded neatly behind him. Though Crowley was a seraph now himself, he had spent enough time as a nobody in Hell to have all the learned avoidance of a fly that’s watched other insects be eaten after venturing into a spider’s web.

A rush of adrenaline hit Crowley all at once, and he tried to dodge out of the chair again. He hadn’t made it more than a foot when a rough hand grabbed his shoulder and shoved him back into the chair so hard that he lost a breath, pain spearing through him.

“Stay,” Beelzebub said again, sharply, and Crowley finally registered the presence of the other seraph, standing to one side of the chair. He did a double take when he saw that Beelzebub was wearing what appeared to be a black knee-length cassock with a matching, red-lined mozzetta embroidered with little pentagrams and inverted crosses—effectively, a perverted, rather goth version of a cardinal’s choir dress.

“Calm yourself,” Lucifer said, as though he thought this would reassure Crowley. “We are not going to hurt you.”

Crowley barely heard him, rasping in another shaking breath and feeling panic beginning to set in. He wanted very much to give flight another go, but was beginning to realise that they had him cornered. A hasty glance around the room confirmed this, the distinct lack of any doors within eyesight crippling his chances of escape.

He swung his attention back to himself, automatically taking stock of his physical capacity to fight or flee. His headache had lessened, but his hip still throbbed and every nerve in his right arm felt like it was on fire. He blinked down at where he had instinctively drawn his injured arm close to his chest, only now realising how much it hurt. He supposed numbly that it must be broken. In addition, it appeared that a great section of the skin on the outside of his forearm had been stripped off entirely. That seemed to be the source of most of the blood currently soaking his shirt, a fact for which Crowley would have been more grateful had it not felt like someone had recently tried skinning him alive.

But perhaps most distressing of all was the sight of a pair of silver handcuffs binding his wrists together. Crowley tugged at them uselessly, but the motion only caused a burst of pain to flare up his hurt arm, so hot and raw that it took his breath away. He realised around the pounding in his ears that these must be what was keeping him from reaching his powers.

“Sorry about those,” Lucifer said. “But you would have put up a fight otherwise.”

Crowley turned his attention back to Lucifer, breathing shallowly and regretfully surrendering any hopes of getting away without engaging with his kidnappers. “Wh—what do you want?” he asked as boldly as he dared, voice trembling despite himself.

“Your help.”

“You’ve got a—a funny way of asssking for it,” Crowley hissed, shifting uncomfortably in the chair and drawing his hurt arm closer to his chest, trying very hard to keep his head clear as he drew another sharp, shallow breath.

“Beelz,” Lucifer said, and Beelzebub reached for Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley flinched away violently, nearly falling off the chair in his effort to avoid Beelzebub’s hand.

“I’m going to heal you, you moron,” Beelzebub said as Crowley awkwardly righted himself, wings half-fanning out to restore his balance.

“N—n—no,” Crowley stammered, the pain in his arm mounting. He knew that if he left the chair he would be punished, so he shrank back against its edge, trying to keep himself as far from Beelzebub as possible.

“Your corporation is not well,” Lucifer said reasonably. “Let Beelzebub heal you.”

“N—not him,” Crowley hissed. Being healed always put the recipient in a vulnerable position, and Crowley didn’t want Beelzebub’s magic anywhere near him, especially not when he was defenceless like this. As it stood, the only person other than himself who he actively let heal him was Aziraphale, and he liked it that way.

“You—you hit me with a car, _kidnap_ me from my home, cut off my powersss, and all but t—tie me to thisss chair, and you expect me to _help you?”_

Lucifer’s expression grew pained. “We sent demons to try to speak with you, but you never let them get close.”

“Of courssse I didn’t, they were ssspying on me!” Crowley hissed, voice slurring far beyond his ability to control, pain still wreaking havoc with his mind. “For all I knew, you’d put a priccce on my head.”

Lucifer frowned. “But how were you to know if you never—”

“Look,” Crowley hissed crossly, head pounding, “if you really want my help, you’ll take thessse bloody cuffsss off and let me heal myssself.”

There was a long moment of silence during which, to Crowley’s immense surprise, Lucifer and Beelzebub exchanged glances. Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Beelzebub shrug.

“There’re two of us and one of him,” Beelzebub offered.

Lucifer turned his gaze back to Crowley. “If we take the cuffs off, will you promise to listen to what I have to say?”

“That means _no_ _running,”_ Beelzebub growled.

Maybe it was a poor deal, and given how quickly they’d folded it appeared that Crowley might be in a position to bargain further, but he was beginning to grow dizzy from the blood loss and desperately wanted the cuffs off.

“Worksss for me,” Crowley agreed hastily.

Lucifer nodded at Beelzebub, who produced the narrow key to the handcuffs, leaned over, and wedged it into the lock.

As the metal snapped away from his wrists, Crowley felt his powers come back to him all in a rush, the powers of a seraph, potent enough to destroy a city in an afternoon.

It took Crowley a second to orient himself as the power flowed back into him. He was still uncomfortable with the vast reserves—and, if he was honest with himself, more than a little afraid of them—but he was grateful for their return nonetheless. As his power settled back into its regular position, Crowley pulled aside a tiny portion and poured it into his corporation. In a little under two seconds, he had repaired all of the damage.

He gasped as the pain left him, the shattered bones in his arm mending themselves and his abraded skin snapping back into place.

Another half a thought vaporised the blood from his clothes, skin, and hair, leaving him looking a little dazed but no worse for wear.

The air around Crowley was charged, and it took him a moment to realise that both Lucifer and Beelzebub were on high alert, holding their own powers in check as they waited for him to run. The prospect was very tempting, but now that he could see straight it didn’t seem altogether worth it.

Crowley drew a deep breath, felt the last of the ringing in his head subside, and sat back in the chair, wings unfurling slightly as he forced himself to relax. “Thank you. Now, I’m listening.”

 

~~***~~

 

“But why’d they bother taking him north?” Bert asked as Aziraphale chalked a large round sigil onto the floor of his and Crowley’s living room. A wall would have been better for this purpose, but the walls of the cottage had become increasingly littered with bookcases, making the floor the largest available flat surface. “If you can just make a portal to Hell anywhere you please,” Bert continued, sounding confused, “why bother moving him at all?”

“Maybe they didn’t have time,” Aziraphale said, drawing the lines of the inverted pentagram with long, deliberate strokes of his hand. “Or maybe they were taking Crowley to somewhere or someone else first.”

“And you’re sure it’s wise to…er…go to Hell yourself?”

Aziraphale stopped, the piece of chalk coming to a rest on the floor of his and Crowley’s home. He looked up at Bert sharply. “Do you bloody well _think_ it’s wise?” he snapped, and then turned his attention back to the sigil. “But someone needs to search Hell while Kazariel searches Heaven.”

Bert was quiet, and after almost ten seconds of silence Aziraphale began to feel quite bad for snapping at him. Bert was only trying to help, after all. “Sorry,” he said, voice tight.

“It’s okay,” Bert said, sinking into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, next to where he’d set the mirror down. “Do you want any help?”

“I’ll be done in just a few minutes,” Aziraphale said, drawing the first of the glyphs that sat just within the perimeter of the circle.

“I meant…in Hell,” Bert said, a little nervously.

Aziraphale paused, the piece of chalk hovering an inch above the floor, and looked back up at Bert.

“I know I’m just a human, but I’ve been there before, and, maybe, an extra pair of eyes…”

“That’s very brave of you, Bert, but you should stay here,” Aziraphale said, looking back down at the sigil and drawing the first stroke of the next glyph. “I don’t know what I’ll be getting into, and you’d only be in danger.”

“Crowley—” Bert began, but Aziraphale cut him off.

“I’ll look after Crowley; you have your wife to think of. And I’ve got you into enough trouble over the years as it is.”

Bert was quiet again as Aziraphale worked his way further around the circle. He was over halfway done when he felt an unprompted surge of fear, followed by a rush of adrenaline.

The piece of chalk in Aziraphale’s hand snapped and he sat back quickly, heart hammering in his chest.

“Something’s happening,” Aziraphale said, closing his eyes and focussing on the emotions coursing through him that were not his own, hoping Crowley might give him some sort of clue to his whereabouts.

“What? Where?” asked Bert.

“Shh,” Aziraphale said, raising a hand to quiet the barman. “I think Crowley woke up.”

Slowly, the fear in his gut began to fade, leaving only sharp tingles of pain. Though Aziraphale did his best to cling to every faint flutter of emotion, he wasn’t able to eke any further meaning from any of them.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, wrapping his hand around the broken piece of chalk in his palm. “Crowley, where are you?”

He felt the time slip by, seconds passing like sand through his fingers, but nothing else happened. He was about to give up and go back to working on the sigil when, without warning, he felt the connection he had to Crowley’s powers reopen.

Aziraphale drew a sharp breath and opened his eyes as he felt Crowley’s powers flow into him, just as reassuringly present as they usually were. A few seconds later, the last of Crowley’s pain faded away, and then it was just Aziraphale, sitting on the floor of the cottage and staring at the sigil while Bert’s expression grew steadily more alarmed.

Aziraphale took another breath, this one longer, and sat back, relief flooding him. “He has his powers back,” Aziraphale said, hardly able to believe this change in fortune. “And he healed himself.”

“Really?” Bert asked. “That’s—that’s amazing! So he’s all right?”

“For now,” Aziraphale agreed. “He’s not in immediate danger, I don’t think.”

“But then…why kidnap him?” Bert asked, putting voice to Aziraphale’s own thoughts.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, feeling his relief already beginning to give way to worry, the sort of worry that could only be assuaged by making sure Crowley was all right with his own eyes. “He might still be in trouble.”

“What if Kazariel found him?”

Aziraphale paused; Bert’s point was fair. “I suppose…she would have had to have found him almost right away, but it’s possible. And I told her to phone me if she found him.” Aziraphale hesitated, looking worriedly at the sigil in front of him. If he went to Hell now, and Kazariel had indeed found Crowley in Heaven, then all the time he spent doubling back would be a waste. “Ten minutes,” he decided.

 

~~***~~

 

“Six years ago,” Lucifer said carefully, “you sent me a message about an angel named Ishtyr. I want to know how you got it.”

Crowley blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“The message you gave to Belial to give to me,” Lucifer clarified, expression almost eager, “saying that Ishtyr was Death and that he forgives me. Who gave you that message?”

Crowley blinked again, wondering if Lucifer had really arranged to have him kidnapped just so he could ask about a _message_. “Death did. Ishtyr, I mean. Well. They’re the same person.”

“Yes,” Lucifer said, eyes lighting up as he sprang on this piece of information. “So it _was_ from Ishtyr himself? But how did you come to meet him?”

“Er,” Crowley said, and glanced over at where Beelzebub was standing with his arms crossed, eyes trained on Crowley. “I died.”

Lucifer gave him a puzzled look. “But you are alive.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Look, what’s this really about?”

Lucifer considered him for a moment. Crowley glanced back at Beelzebub again, but he had flicked his eyes towards Lucifer. After a moment, Lucifer seemed to come to some sort of decision.

“In the beginning,” Lucifer began slowly, “before the Fall, I went by a different name—”

“Venus,” Crowley supplied, and Lucifer looked very taken aback.

He exchanged a surprised glance with Beelzebub. “H—how did you know that?”

“Death told me,” Crowley admitted. “He explained how you, er, created mortality and all.”

Lucifer’s face cycled through a few emotions and settled on a sort of resigned relief. “Yes, well, then you should understand why I wish to speak with him.”

Crowley stared at Lucifer in disbelief. “And that’s _really_ why you brought me here? To find out how to talk to _Ishtyr?”_

“He is a very old friend,” Lucifer said, looking somewhat distressed. “I greatly desire to speak with him. His death caused the world to be the way it is, created the impetus for my revolution. You have carried his message well, but I need to hear it from his own lips. I thought you might help with this.”

Crowley stared at the King of Darkness and twisted in his chair to look at Beelzebub. “Is he serious?”

Beelzebub looked a little long-suffering. “Very.”

Crowley turned back to Lucifer and took a deep breath. “Well, you’re not going to be hearing anything from his _lips_ , for starters,” Crowley said. “He _is_ Death now. He was a skeleton the last time I checked.”

Lucifer nodded.

Crowley considered saying more and hesitated. If Lucifer really did just want his help to talk to Ishtyr—and Crowley could think of nothing that could be gained from such a strange lie—then he was more than willing to help. According to the story Death had told him, Ishtyr and Venus had briefly shared a corporation in Heaven, which had resulted in an accident that had killed Ishtyr.

Crowley and Aziraphale had used the same spell as part of their escape from Heaven, and Crowley knew from firsthand experience just how close it brought its participants. With all the barriers of societal and learned behaviour stripped away, it allowed two souls to truly meet each other. Ever since Crowley had first read about Ishtyr and Venus’s mishap in a collection of silvery papyrus in Heaven’s library, he had felt a sort of affinity for the pair of misadventurers, and knew that, if something similar had happened to Aziraphale, he would stop at nothing until he had found him again.

“If I tell you how to talk to Ishtyr,” Crowley asked slowly, “will you let me go?” There was a ball of worry in his stomach that he sensed belonged to Aziraphale, and he knew that he had his own priorities to think about.

Lucifer nodded quickly, looking almost relieved. “Of course.”

Crowley nodded and shifted on the chair, wondering where to start. He realised that a full explanation would require him to tell them about his and Aziraphale’s soul bond, and he hesitated again. “You won’t, er, go around telling people about what I’m going to tell you, right?” he asked uncertainly. “I would rather this not be public knowledge.”

“Of course. It won’t leave this room.”

Crowley glanced at Beelzebub, and he too nodded acceptance of the terms.

“Okay,” Crowley said, supposing their word was the best he would get. “Aziraphale and I went to Eden right after we left Heaven. We took the fruit from the Tree of Life.”

A look of astonishment crossed Lucifer’s face. “The _Tree of Life?_ That’s how you were able to speak with Ishtyr and return? You ate it and made yourself immortal?”

“Not exactly,” Crowley said quickly. “I didn’t eat from the Tree; Aziraphale did.”

Lucifer opened his mouth in confusion.

“Aziraphale and I have a…” Crowley hesitated. “We each, ah, have a piece of the other’s soul.”

Lucifer’s expression grew surprised, but he offered no comment.

“That’s what I would prefer you keep to yourselves,” Crowley said. “I don’t think that if I’d eaten from the Tree myself I would have even been able to see Death, since I’d be immortal. But since I died after _Aziraphale_ had eaten from the Tree, I still went to Death as I would usually do, but he wasn’t able to reap me because I carried a piece of _Aziraphale’s_ immortal soul. So he just patched me up and sent me back. He said I was the first person he’d been able to send back who was able to remember meeting him. I gathered that he’d been trying to send you that message for a long time.”

Lucifer took a deep breath and stepped back.

“So that’s how I did it,” Crowley said, glancing at Beelzebub. “My guess is that you could do the same. It’s not easy, but it’s the only way I know.”

“Eden’s in Heaven,” Beelzebub pointed out, seemingly more to Lucifer than Crowley. “They’d never let us anywhere near it.”

Lucifer nodded, looking a little distressed.

“Actually,” Crowley volunteered, “it’s on Earth.”

The heads of both infernal seraphim swivelled to look at him.

“It’s in a pocket dimension,” Crowley explained, “but it’s locked. You need a key to get in, one of the original swords that guarded it.”

Lucifer’s gaze moved to Beelzebub.

“We have one of those,” Beelzebub said. “The flaming swords from the cherubim that guarded Eden, you mean, right?”

Crowley nodded.

“We have the sword from the Northern Gate.”

“Could you tell us where on Earth Eden is?” Lucifer asked hopefully. “We can arrange for some sort of reward for you.”

Crowley considered. He knew he had already given them more than their fair share of information, and he was likely free to go. The thought of returning to Aziraphale and Midfarthing was very tempting, but though he had spent millennia in fear of Lucifer and his lieutenant Beelzebub, he had never imagined that he would see a look of such hope on the face of the chief devil himself. Death had told him that great changes were occurring in Heaven and Hell, revolutions that would Redeem the damned and put right all that had gone wrong in the world, and it seemed to Crowley that he might be witnessing one of those revolutions now.

“Eden’s in Iran,” Crowley said. “And you should also know that the Tree is warded. The Metatron and the archangels put a sigil around it to deter thieves. By all rights, I shouldn’t have made it out alive. But if the two of you work together, you should be able to break the sigil.”

Lucifer cast Beelzebub a slightly worried look. “Beelzebub and I cannot both leave Hell.”

Crowley blinked at them in surprise. “What? Why not?”

“It’s unstable,” Lucifer explained. “There is a great deal of Redemption fervour, but any crowd can turn into a mob very quickly. Having a seraph in Hell, even one that never shows his face, gives weight to the rule of law.”

Crowley frowned. “Surely you can just nip out for a few hours?”

Lucifer’s mouth twisted. “I cannot risk it.”

“I can deal with it myself,” Beelzebub suggested. “If Crowley could get past the warding, I’m sure I can too.”

“Um,” Crowley said, at the same time as Lucifer said, “Absolutely not.”

“I very nearly died,” Crowley repeated. “And it _did_ kill me in the end, I guess. I really wouldn’t recommend it.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and Crowley’s mind had already reached the obvious solution before Lucifer even voiced it.

“Perhaps…you have already been of great service, Crowley, for which I am truly grateful, but perhaps you could assist us a little further?”

Crowley, watching his prospects of returning home soon dwindle, twisted his mouth.

“You said we need two seraphim to overcome the sigil,” Lucifer continued, “and one of us ought to stay here to oversee Hell, so perhaps you could accompany Beelzebub? You know where Eden is, after all, and if you went together I’m sure it wouldn’t take long.”

Crowley drew a deep breath, thinking it over.

“I would say you could remain here and Beelzebub and I could go, but it would take us longer to find Eden.”

“He’ll also start attracting a lot of attention if he stays here much longer,” Beelzebub added, jerking his head towards Crowley. “He _is_ the Redeemed himself, after all. Individual auras get all muddled up with so many demons around, but I’m sure his presence is already making itself known. We’ll have a crowd banging on our doors within the hour.”

Lucifer inclined his head in acceptance.

“I’ll go,” Crowley said slowly, “but I need to let Aziraphale know that I’m all right. He’ll be looking for me.” He could still feel Aziraphale’s anxiety, a tight ball of worry in the pit of his stomach mixed with a strange sort of determination. He tried sending reassuring emotions Aziraphale’s way.

“Of course!” Lucifer said quickly. “I really do appreciate it.”

“I’ll just phone him quick and then we can be on our way,” Crowley said, fishing around in his inside jacket pocket for his mobile. When he didn’t find it, he checked his trouser pockets, but both were empty apart from his wallet and keys.

Lucifer and Beelzebub both watched him, puzzled.

“Did one of you take my mobile?” Crowley asked, patting himself down a second time.

“A mobile what?” Beelzebub asked, voice mirroring Lucifer’s puzzled expression.

“Mobile phone,” Crowley explained and held up his hands to show the size of the device. “About yea big, flat, black, smooth and fairly shiny, has a couple of buttons…?”

He looked back and forth between the two seraphim, but their expressions were blank.

“Beelzebub can carry a message…?” Lucifer offered.

Crowley held out his hand, intending to miracle a new mobile into it, and then remembered that he didn’t have Aziraphale’s new number memorised. When he’d bought Aziraphale a smartphone, he’d entered the number into his own phone and then not given it another thought. He knew the bookshop number, which he’d memorised some time ago, but he very much doubted Aziraphale—or anyone else—was there right now.

“I’d be happy to take a message,” Beelzebub said quickly. “I’ll give it to my most trustworthy and swift-footed courier.”

Crowley glanced at Lucifer.

“We have quite good messengers,” Lucifer supplied. “And if Aziraphale is truly looking for you, then he should be receptive to the approach of one.”

Crowley took a deep breath and tried to reach across the bridge between Aziraphale’s soul and his own, hoping to reassure his partner by that contact alone. “Okay. Should I write one down?”

“Our messengers can take written or spoken messages,” Beelzebub said. “Written is more secure.”

Crowley nodded and miracled a sheet of paper, a square envelope, and a pen into his hands. He paused for a moment, pen in one hand and paper in the other, Lucifer and Beelzebub both watching him. Then Crowley blinked and the sheet of paper filled itself with words assuring Aziraphale that he was all right and very sorry for giving him a scare, and explaining what had happened and why he had decided to go with Beelzebub to Eden. He signed it by hand, miracled away the pen, hastily folded the paper, and tucked it inside the envelope. He put Aziraphale’s name on the front with another thought and handed the sealed letter to Beelzebub.

“I’ll take care of this right away,” Beelzebub said, nodding at Lucifer and striding away, past the darkened throne and across the long hall.

“We’ll just need to collect the sword and then you can be going,” Lucifer said as Beelzebub’s footsteps receded. “I really do appreciate your help with this matter. If there is anything I can do in return…?”

Crowley shrugged. “I’d appreciate it if you never kidnapped me again.”

Lucifer’s face grew pained. “I do apologise about that. Beelz thought it would be best.”

“Did he now?” Crowley grumbled, thinking ahead to the trip with the other seraph. “Great.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Borchat,” Beelzebub said, “I have an important message for you to carry.”

Borchat snapped to attention as the seraph approached. Beelzebub glared at a handful of other demons standing nearby, and they hastily scurried off to find safer ground.

“It is for someone most unusual,” Beelzebub said, drawing an unmarked envelope from a pocket underneath his mozzetta and handing it to Borchat. “You are to speak nothing of this to _anyone_ , not even Lucifer, do you understand? I would hate to lose such an intelligent messenger to an unfortunate accident.”

Borchat nodded smartly. “Yes, Lord Beelzebub.”

“You will have to hand it off to another messenger,” Beelzebub continued, tapping the letter in Borchat’s hands. “You will meet them at Cathedral Square in the city of Birmingham in England. They will approach you and ask who you serve, and you should reply that you serve Beelzebub.”

Borchat nodded again. “Understood.”

Beelzebub straightened back up. “Excellent. Be swift.”

Borchat nodded one last time, tucked the letter into an inside pocket of his coat, and trotted swiftly away, wings already beginning to unfurl behind him.

Beelzebub watched him go and then started back towards the ninth circle. He patted his side as he went, hearing the crinkle of the letter Crowley had written Aziraphale still tucked away in the pocket there, where it would remain until his and the Metatron’s deal was done.


	8. Our Father, Who Art in Heaven?

Bert finished wiping away the last traces of chalk from the floor of Aziraphale and Crowley’s cottage, obliterating any indication that, a few short minutes ago, the floor had played host to a circular opening yawning into a dark abyss. Aziraphale had instructed him to close the portal immediately after he had passed through, in order to prevent anyone from coming through from the other side and learning the location of Midfarthing, a request Bert had been all too happy to oblige.

Now that the job was done, however, Bert found himself wishing abstractly that he had gone with Aziraphale. He didn’t _want_ to go back to Hell, exactly—he had had more than his fill when he had briefly visited there before, partially as a prisoner—but he didn’t like the idea of letting Aziraphale go by himself either. Though he supposed it was for the best, he couldn’t help but think that he ought to be doing something more to help.

Bert stood and walked over to the kitchen table, sinking into one of the chairs and setting down the rag he’d been wiping away the chalk with. He supposed that the police would be back sooner or later; he should think of something to tell them. Or perhaps he should just go home, and if the police wanted to talk to him then they could find him there. Or maybe Aziraphale would be back soon, and he could deal with them.

“He’ll be back before you know it,” Bert told himself. “Crowley will be fine. He always is.”

He was still trying to convince himself of this when his gaze wandered to the mirror lying on the table nearby.

He traced its frame with his eyes thoughtfully, his attention momentarily diverted.

“I suppose I ought to just go home, huh?” he asked it. “Sit this one out?” His thoughts strayed to Donnie, and he found himself tapping his forefinger and thumb together.

Struck with a sudden impulse, he reached over and pulled the mirror closer. “Mirror,” he said to it, unsure if there was a more formal address he should use, “show me Donna Marley.”

The surface of the mirror shimmered and cleared a moment later to reveal the stocky figure of Bert’s wife, sitting in their house doing a bit of knitting with a cat on her lap. Bert smiled fondly.

It really was a bit of a miracle they had wound up together after all these years, but he was very happy that they had. They had both about given up on love when they had found each other, and it was so unspeakably wonderful to be with someone again. She was nothing like Ann, his first wife, and he knew he was nothing like Donnie’s first husband, but they were good for each other. And, somehow, Bert had found it in himself to love her just as much as he had loved Ann, but in so many different ways.

Bert smiled sadly, his mind drifting back to his first wife and the unborn daughter he had almost been able to meet. It still affected him quite a lot sometimes, but he was moving forward with Donnie and knew that he shouldn’t jeopardise what he had now because he couldn’t let go of the past.

It was easier said than done, though, and Bert found himself running his finger down the edge of the mirror, wishing to see Ann just one last time.

“Mirror,” he asked carefully, “could you show me Ann Marley?”

The surface of the mirror shimmered again, like waves on an otherwise still lake, and cleared to show nothing more enlightening than his own reflection. Bert let out a breath. He remembered Aziraphale saying that the mirror only showed people on Earth, and since that definitionally excluded both Heaven and Hell, he supposed he really shouldn’t have expected anything to happen.

He honestly did believe Ann was in Heaven—he couldn’t bear the thought of the alternative—but he knew he wasn’t the one who judged such things. That was God’s business, and Bert fretted over the fact that neither himself nor Ann had been particularly religious. After Ann had died, Bert had started attending church, but if it comforted him with tales of heavenly rest, it raised just as many questions about why God had allowed someone so wonderful and kind to die so young. He had gradually come to believe that God had had no hand in Ann’s death because He either didn’t care or didn’t exist, and that Heaven was a fool’s dream either way. But this was all before Crowley had transformed himself into a snake and summoned him to Iran. Before Crowley had explained what he and Aziraphale were, and how it was all real—Heaven, Hell, and everything else, up to and including God Himself.

Bert gazed down at his own reflection. “Hey, mirror,” he said, “just for fun…show me God.”

The mirror shimmered and the ripples parted to reveal none other than Father Gilbert, the local vicar.

Bert blinked at the mirror in surprise. “God, I said,” he clarified. “Lord of Lords, Creator of the Universe, all that. Eternal and omnipotent and such.”

The mirror shimmered, but when its surface cleared it was still very much centred on Father Gilbert as he dug through a box of candles in the sacristy of the little church.

“Huh,” Bert said, and then abruptly remembered every service he’d ever attended, every unorthodox sermon and heretical interpretation of a Biblical passage that had ever spilled from Father Gilbert’s lips. He remembered every knowing smile and convenient coincidence, and how the priest had appeared out of the blue one day, with no real family and a history that seemed to change every time he was asked about it.

And then, suddenly, it didn’t seem so improbable after all.

 

~~***~~

 

The door to the shared office/sacristy in the little parish church was open when Bert reached it.

He knocked as he stuck his head in, suddenly doubtful about what he was planning to do but too shaken to turn back now.

Father Gilbert looked up, startled, as Bert appeared.

“Hi,” Bert offered.

“Ah, hello, Bert, what can I do for you?” Father Gilbert asked, straightening up and dusting his hands off. It looked like he’d been doing a spot of cleaning in the office, boxes of service materials strewn around him.

“I—er—I was just wondering if I could ask you something, actually,” Bert said. “It might sound a bit strange.”

“Of course!” Father Gilbert said brightly, momentarily distracted by a pile of hymnals that was threatening to tip over. “What is it?”

Bert knew that he hadn’t yet passed the point of no return, but ploughed on despite himself. “Are you God?”

Father Gilbert tried to steady the stack of hymnals, vastly overcorrected, and nearly tripped as he sent the pile spilling onto the floor of the office.

Bert jumped back slightly and automatically tried to catch a few of the hymnals, but it was too late. Father Gilbert started scrambling among them on the floor, pulling them towards himself and making a new stack.

“Wha—what?” Father Gilbert asked, voice a little stressed. “What would make you ask such a thing? I—uh—” He glanced up at Bert quickly, expression conflicted, and Bert just stared back down at him. He honestly hadn’t known what to think before, but this was not the reaction of someone with nothing to hide.

“…you’re kidding me.”

“What?” Father Gilbert asked distractedly, still pulling hymnals towards himself. “Kidding about what? I—uh—I’m sorry, I really must get going, I have, uh, somewhere very important to be—” He straightened up, several hymnals clutched haphazardly to his chest. Father Gilbert’s gaze flitted over Bert’s shoulder, towards the nave of the church.

“Where?” Bert challenged.

Father Gilbert’s eyes bounced around the office, looking anywhere but at Bert. “P—parishioners! In need. In, uh, Charringford! Yes, most urgently…” Father Gilbert moved to squeeze past Bert, knocking over the half-rebuilt stack of hymnals on his way past.

Bert let him slip by but followed him doggedly as he started into the nave of the church, three hymnals still clutched to his chest. “Charringford,” Bert repeated, hoping his voice conveyed how unconvinced he was.

“Y—yes, of course,” Father Gilbert stammered, striding for the end of the nave and the door leading outside.

“Because there aren’t parishioners here in Midfarthing that need you right now?”

“Uh…not that I know of,” Father Gilbert said, nearing the door to the church and apparently only then realising he was still holding the hymnals.

Bert frowned at the vicar for a moment, suddenly second-guessing himself; wasn’t God supposed to be all-seeing? “Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?” Father Gilbert asked distractedly, depositing the hymnals on a pew.

Bert shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Crowley was hit by a car and, um, kidnapped.”

Father Gilbert’s head snapped up and he stared at Bert incredulously. _“What?”_

“Earlier this afternoon,” Bert supplied. “We’re not sure who did it.”

Father Gilbert continued staring at him, looking suddenly more authoritative than Bert had ever seen him. “Is he all right? Where’s Aziraphale?” He started quickly towards the door of the church, as though he intended to find him himself.

“He’s gone,” Bert supplied, following the priest and noting that he’d called Aziraphale by his real name, not his pseudonym. “Left for Hell just a few minutes ago to try to find Crowley.”

Father Gilbert paused on his way to the door. Bert bit the inside of his cheek, waiting for the vicar to react to his casual mention of Hell. Father Gilbert took one more step towards the door, stopped again, and turned back to Bert.

“Look, Bert, thanks for letting me know,” Father Gilbert said urgently. “But I really have to go, and you should just stay here, all right? Good.”

Father Gilbert was at the door to the church, Bert still standing among the pews, when the barman plucked up the courage to voice the question he really came here to ask. “Is Ann in Heaven?”

Father Gilbert rocked to a halt, one hand on the half-open door.

“Ann and our daughter,” Bert continued, taking a few hesitant steps closer. “I understand it’s a fifty-fifty split between Heaven and Hell, and I…I just…they’re in Heaven, right?”

Father Gilbert looked over his shoulder and gazed coolly at Bert for a long moment. Then he let out a full breath, his fingers tapping against the edge of the door. “How’d you figure it out?”

Bert blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“How’d you figure out that I…” Father Gilbert made a vague gesture with his free hand.

“Oh,” Bert said. “There’s this mirror of Ziraphale’s that shows you anyone you ask for. So does that mean you’re…you’re really…?” Bert couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Guilty as charged,” Father Gilbert said, “and I’d love to chat, but I’m really quite busy right now.”

“…Charringford?”

“Crowley,” Father Gilbert corrected, already pulling the door further open, afternoon sunlight spilling into the nave of the small parish church. “The future must have changed. He and Aziraphale were supposed to be safe, as I promised. Something has gone terribly wrong.”

Bert could only stare at Father Gilbert in shock, still processing that _he had been right_. “Oh my Go—I mean—um—”

“Again, would love to chat,” Father Gilbert said, making his way out of the church, “but right now I have a call to make.”

 

~~***~~

 

“How about ‘The Great Houdini and Company’?” Harry suggested, and Ludwig didn’t have to glance over his shoulder to know that the magician was gesturing broadly with both hands.

“What, because you’re so much better than the rest of us?” Alexander shot back.

“I am the most _recent_ ,” Harry said importantly. “I am most in touch with the world as it _is_ , and ‘The Joint American, Bavarian, Roman Regiment’ just isn’t going to play with any audience in this century.”

“It doesn’t need to _play_ ,” Alexander grumbled. “We’re not a band of minstrels.”

“If only,” Ludwig said with a wistful sigh as he led the way through yet another heaven, Alexander and Harry in tow.

“And what would _you_ have us be called, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ludwig said, pulling open an invisible door and stepping into a field, “‘The Royal Minstrel Company’ sounds pretty great to me.”

“ _No_ ‘royals,’” Alexander said sternly. “We’ve been over this. No ‘regal’s or ‘imperial’s or any of that. And I for one will _not_ be called a minstrel.”

“Okay,” Ludwig conceded, striding across the field and searching blindly for the next door.

“Are you feeling all right?” Harry asked Ludwig as he pulled the door open. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“Perfectly all right,” Ludwig said, ducking through the doorway and stepping into a small stone house. The occupant looked up in surprise as the three of them traipsed past without giving him a second glance.

“You could have brought Richard with, you know,” Harry pointed out. “We wouldn’t have minded.”

“ _You_ wouldn’t have minded,” Alexander muttered.

“ _Alexander_ ,” Harry admonished sharply.

“What, we don’t hear enough about him as it is? Richard this, Richard that, perfect, wonderful Richard…”

“It took Ludwig five years to find him,” Harry reminded Alexander. “Let the man be happy.”

Ludwig dragged open the next door and was relieved when they spilled out into a familiar theatre.

“Aha!” Harry said, brightening as he looked around them, eyes sweeping over the empty rows of seats and settling on the lit but vacant stage in front of them. “My place!”

“Good Lord, this takes me back,” Alexander said, trailing behind them as Ludwig strode towards the stage, where he knew the next door lay.

“I haven’t been back here in _ages_ ,” Harry said nostalgically as Ludwig led the way up a short flight of steps and onto the stage. Harry strode immediately over to the large painted clock prop and ran the tip of his index finger down its long second hand. “So busy helping all the other souls.”

Alexander made a noise of agreement, looking around the huge empty theatre as Ludwig opened the next door.

“Come along,” he said, waiting for his friends to join him. When they had—Harry seeming particularly disappointed they weren’t lingering longer—Ludwig pushed the door open the rest of the way and the three of them stepped forward and into a stately Roman palace.

“—and then bring the aqueduct south here— _eho!”_

All three newcomers looked to where a man in an elaborate toga was holding a scroll open, evidently having been showing its contents to someone else only a second ago.

Ludwig felt himself smile, the first such expression that hadn’t been forced in some time. “Otho,” he called. “Are you bored of ruling the known world yet?”

The man in the toga turned, half-rolling the scroll back up and staring at the three intruders in confusion.

Ludwig’s eyes found the most prominent fibula on Otho’s toga and the small white feather that lay clasped there against the rich fabric, a feather from a very remarkable angel whom they had once helped.

Ludwig reached to his own shoulder and tapped the place on his chest where the feather and fibula laid on Otho.

Otho automatically copied Ludwig’s gesture, and then looked down at himself in surprise as his fingers found the feather he had cherished since the moment he had received it. For a heartbeat he just blinked at it, and then he looked back up at them and let out a laugh.

“You three!” he said, rolling up the scroll and walking over, his grin widening as he took in each of them in turn. “What are you doing here?”

“Collecting you, of course,” Alexander said. “We missed listening to all the outdated jokes we didn’t understand.”

“Aziraphale’s in trouble,” Ludwig supplied. “He sent a message that Crowley had been…um…what did you say it was, Harry?”

“Hit by a car,” Harry provided.

Otho, still smiling but looking increasingly confused, looked back and forth between them.

“A sort of metal chariot,” Harry supplied.

“Was it an accident?” Otho asked, glancing down at the feather in his fibula again. “I quite liked him.”

“Aziraphale thinks it was intentional,” Ludwig said. “Whoever did it abducted him, and Aziraphale needs our help to search Heaven for him.”

Otho nodded, but now his smile was beginning to fade. “But what do you need me for? I’m sure you three have things well in hand.”

Ludwig felt his hopes plummet. “Do you…not wish to accompany us?”

“Oh, no, I do!” Otho said quickly. “And if Aziraphale is in trouble then I am happy to aid him, but surely there is no service I could provide that one of you is not capable of? I only slowed you down before.”

“That’s not true,” Harry said at the same time as Alexander made a noise of agreement.

“It’s not a matter of what you can _do_ for us,” Ludwig said, feeling suddenly quite strongly about this. “You’re one of us, one of our band of adventurers, and I’m getting the band back together. It’s all four of us.”

“ _Four_ ,” Harry jumped in. “Numbers; that’s it! How about: ‘The Great Houdini and the Three Governors.’”

“That’s atrocious,” Alexander said.

“Come with us,” Ludwig urged Otho. He didn’t want to lose another friend, not now.

Otho nodded, looking almost heartened. “If you are certain.”

“Um, ‘Houdini and the Rulers Three’?”

“Stop putting yourself in the title, you cad.”

Ludwig and Otho walked past the squabbling pair and back through the invisible door to Harry’s heaven, Otho tossing the scroll to the floor before they left.

“‘The Adventurous Four,’” Alexander tried as he followed them through the door. “‘The Four Dead Cavaliers.’”

“You are properly terrible at this,” Harry said.

“Have you considered Latin?” Otho suggested, glancing over his shoulder at the pair of them.

“Oh no, not you too,” Harry said, sounding horrified. “Between you and Mr War-of-Independence, we’ll never leave the Dark Ages.”

“The…Company of Four,” Alexander offered.

“Oh, come on, you’re not even trying!” Harry accused. “It’s not _flashy_ enough. It’s not _phenomenal_ enough.”

“‘The _Phenomenal_ Four!’” Alexander cried.

“Closer!” Harry said, snapping his fingers. “The alliteration’s good. Maybe ‘The Fantastic Four’?”

“Eh, sounds like a cheap knockoff,” Alexander said.

“How about ‘The Fabulous Four’?” Otho suggested.

“That’s…actually not bad,” Harry admitted. “Have I heard that before?”

“It’s Latin,” Otho said, a little smugly. “We who come from fable.”

“Well, _I_ come from history,” Alexander said, “but I do think we’ve _become_ a bit of a fable, at least in Heaven.”

“What do you think, Ludwig?” Harry asked. “Fancy being fabulous?”

Ludwig allowed himself a second smile, already feeling better for being surrounded by his friends. “Always.”

 

~~***~~

 

Hell had heard of Aziraphale.

He hadn’t left the second circle before there was a handful of demons trailing after him, apparently intrigued by his presence. A few had even been brave enough to ask him if Crowley the Redeemed was with him.

Aziraphale had taken that to mean that they didn’t know where Crowley was, so he told them he was busy and continued moving downwards, heading towards the centre of Hell. He wasn’t very familiar with Hell’s geography, but he knew that the ninth circle was also the deepest, so he just kept going _down_.

The crowd trailing after him grew larger as he moved deeper, and the demons he ran across became braver, asking him why he was here and if he had any tips for unFalling.

Though Aziraphale had sympathy for their plight, he was far too concerned with finding Crowley to offer more than a few brief words in response. No one seemed to take his brevity the wrong way, though, and for the most part they seemed perfectly content to follow silently after him.

When he reached the seventh circle, he heard the first rumour that Crowley had recently been in Hell. It came in the form of a whispered comment that someone had felt an aura too divine to be a demon’s but too powerful to belong to any of the angels helping with Redemption.

In the eighth circle, when quizzed, a demon admitted she’d felt someone like Crowley moving quickly through Hell, but she could have been mistaken.

At the entrance to the ninth circle, Aziraphale met the first demon who didn’t immediately step out of his path.

This fellow was standing guard in front of a very large iron door with incredibly intricate metalwork, some of which Aziraphale recognised as forming some sort of defensive spell.

“I have come to speak with Lucifer,” Aziraphale said when it became clear that his path would be blocked. “Let me pass.” The demons who had been brave enough to follow him past the seventh circle clustered behind him, a sea of black wings and curious faces.

“No one is to pass,” the guard said, nervously adjusting his grip on the halberd in his hand. Its head was incredibly sharp-looking and appeared to have been carved from what might have been obsidian, but the guard didn’t look like he wanted to use it.

“I am Aziraphale,” Aziraphale said, taking a bold step forward and taking confidence from the buzzing whisper that arose from the demons clustered a respectful distance behind him. “Partner of Crowley the Redeemed, and I command you to open this door.”

The demon paled slightly, eyes moving from Aziraphale to the crowd of demons behind him.

“I—um, I’m not supposed to—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale said, dropping his pretence and stepping forward. The guard shied away, as though he expected Aziraphale to smite him, but Aziraphale only pushed the door open for himself and strode through.

“The rest of you— _stay_ ,” Aziraphale heard the guard say as he strode across a gleaming marble floor, the smooth, almost slippery stone reflecting his image as he moved forward.

He could feel Lucifer’s aura much more clearly now, and he easily directed his feet towards it. He came across a few other demonic guards, but they must have all assumed that he had been allowed past the initial gatekeeper for good reason, because none of them gave him any trouble. More than one leaned away from their post to watch him after he had passed by.

Aziraphale tracked Lucifer’s aura to a large iron door, huge reinforcing bands running horizontally across it. The detailed metalwork here was intricate as well, swirling patterns holding defensive sigils and decorative swirls in equal number. The two demons standing guard outside of the door snapped to attention and pushed it open at Aziraphale’s approach.

Aziraphale strode in unchallenged.

The hall before him was narrow and long, the far end swathed in shadow. The gleaming obsidian walls had been carved into tall compound columns surmounted by slender gothic arches that stepped out over the space in a series of pendants before vanishing into the darkness above. Aziraphale started forward, the narrowness of the hall making it feel like it might go on forever. He could see a throne near the end of the space, sitting on a dais of polished black marble. The figure slouching idly in it straightened up as Aziraphale approached.

“Lucifer,” Aziraphale said boldly, voice echoing down the hall.

The figure on the throne straightened further as Aziraphale neared, and he saw three sets of black wings separate themselves from the shadows as Lucifer stood. He was wearing a rich burgundy doublet, black hose, and expensive-looking hand-tooled leather boots; the image of the dashing medieval prince was completed by the unassuming gold circlet resting on his toffee-coloured curls.

“Who dares approach?” Lucifer’s voice was a bit higher in tone than Aziraphale had been expecting, a rich tenor that nonetheless held the capacity to turn dark.

“I am Aziraphale,” Aziraphale said, coming to a stop and looking defiantly up at the King of Darkness himself, “and I have come for my husband.”

Lucifer frowned at him. “Husband…?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said pointedly. “I know he was here, so what have you done with him?”

“Oh,” Lucifer said. “He left over an hour ago. Can I get you anything?”

“You can get me _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale growled.

“In good time,” Lucifer said, carefully folding his three sets of wings. “He’ll be back before you know it. Tomorrow at the latest.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “You’d better start talking before I go back outside and tell all of my admirers that you kidnapped Crowley the Redeemed.”

Lucifer, in the process of moving down the gleaming dais steps, gave him a sharp and almost confused look. “Didn’t he explain to you what was happening?”

Aziraphale scowled at the seraph. “Evidently not.”

“He and Beelzebub went to Eden,” Lucifer supplied. “At my request.”

Aziraphale stared at the seraph, a wave of unease and suspicion crashing over him. “What? Why?”

“To retrieve a fruit from the Tree of Life—truly, he didn’t say anything to you about this?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, that’s where he is.”

“So it _was_ you that kidnapped him?” Aziraphale asked pointedly, still trying to establish the basic sequence of events.

“I’m afraid so,” Lucifer replied calmly, miracling a glass holding some sort of amber liquid into his hand. “Really, I can’t get you anything?”

“No, you can’t _get me anything_ ,” Aziraphale growled. Lucifer raised his eyebrows and took a few paces around Aziraphale, sipping his drink.

“I don’t understand what you’re so upset about,” Lucifer said. “There’s nothing to do except wait.”

“Don’t understand—?” Aziraphale turned so he could keep Lucifer in his sights. “You _hit Crowley with a car_ , take him to God knows where, and then cart him off to Eden with _Beelzebub?_ Forgive me if I’m a little _concerned_.”

Lucifer frowned at him. “I have apologised about the unfortunate business with the car.”

“You could have _let me know_ what was happening,” Aziraphale snapped. “Especially if you have him off running _errands_.”

The expression Lucifer was giving him now was properly puzzled. “Didn’t you receive Crowley’s letter?”

Aziraphale glared crossly at the seraph. “Crowley’s _what?”_

“Letter. He wrote you a letter before he and Beelzebub left for Eden. We sent it with our best courier. He has never failed to deliver a message. You didn’t receive one?”

Aziraphale blinked at Lucifer, still suspicious but beginning to wonder if his anger was misplaced. “No.”

Lucifer frowned at him. “And you didn’t scare off any messengers or murder anyone on your way here or anything, did you?”

“Of course not.”

Lucifer stared pensively into his glass and then banished it with a wave of his hand. “In that case, my sincerest apologies. Crowley was most insistent that he be able to contact you before he left, and I assured him that that would be the case.”

“What else did the message say?” Aziraphale asked, mentally backtracking over the past few hours in case he _had_ inadvertently missed a messenger.

Lucifer shrugged. “How am I to know? He sealed it immediately and gave it to Beelzebub.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “And who did Beelzebub give it to?”

“Borchat, our finest messenger,” Lucifer supplied. “It should have reached you within the hour.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, still not entirely convinced this wasn’t a ploy but willing to go along with it for now, “how about you fill me in on what happened with Crowley, and then let’s find this Borchat and see if he has anything to say for himself.”


	9. Team Free Will

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Father Gilbert said, striding through the forest of tombstones towards his grandson.

“It sounded important,” Adam said, straightening up behind the driver’s door of his car as the remaining three doors popped open. “I had to break several traffic laws to get here this quickly.”

Father Gilbert slowed slightly as he approached, surprised to see Adam’s wife and kids clambering out of the car as well.

“You…brought the family, I see.”

“You said it was important,” Adam repeated. “We were in Brighton. On holiday. It had _better_ be important.”

“Very,” Father Gilbert said. “I didn’t know if I could talk about it safely on the phone.”

Adam frowned. “You didn’t _know_ …?”

“I’ll explain,” Father Gilbert said, motioning Adam closer.

“Hello, Gilbert!” called Beth, Adam’s wife.

Father Gilbert raised a hand and gave her a little wave. “Good to see you! I just need a word with Adam.”

“Kids, don’t wander off,” Beth directed as she shut the passenger door and moved around the car’s bonnet to follow Adam.

“When are we going back to the beach, Mum?” one of the kids asked.

“When your father says we are.”

Father Gilbert turned to lead Adam further away and nearly walked straight into Bert, who’d been following him around for the last hour, seeming a little at a loss.

“Sorry,” Bert supplied, quickly stepping out of the way. “Er, my lord.”

“Enough of that,” Father Gilbert said for the third time, waving away Bert’s words.

“Hi, Bert,” Adam said as the two walked past him, addressing his next words to Father Gilbert. “Um, does he know…?”

“Yes,” Father Gilbert said, leading the way up the gentle hill and towards the Tree growing over Aziraphale’s grave.

“Oh,” Adam said, and Father Gilbert heard him turn around to address Bert. “I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Adam, the Antichrist.”

Father Gilbert winced and waited for the questioning to begin.

“O—oh,” Bert stammered. “Um, isn’t that, er, bad?”

“Only if you let it be,” Adam said breezily.

Father Gilbert reached the Tree and stopped beneath it, now far enough from the car to be out of earshot of Adam’s children. Beth, however, had followed them, and she planted herself next to Bert.

“Are you a supernatural being?” Bert asked bluntly as she joined him.

Beth glanced at him. “’Fraid not. I’m Beth, by the way.”

“Bert.”

Father Gilbert turned his attention back to Adam as the pair shook hands.

“This is the Tree,” he said. “You remember it?”

Adam nodded as he looked up at its branches, now holding half a dozen ripe or nearly ripe pears. He reached up and touched one pensively. “Do you know what it does?”

Father Gilbert’s expression grew grim. “I do.” He looked meaningfully at Bert and Beth.

“Don’t look at me; I’m not leaving,” Beth said. Bert mumbled something in agreement.

Father Gilbert looked back at Adam.

“Well, go ahead,” he said.

Father Gilbert took a deep breath. “My best guess is that it conveys free will— _true_ free will, from any meddling by omniscient beings. Or, at least, it wipes them from my omniscience.”

Adam frowned. “That doesn’t sound good. Who ate from it?”

Father Gilbert scrunched up his face. “I did.”

There was a moment of silence.

“…what?” Adam asked at last.

“So you…wiped _yourself_ from your own omniscience?” Beth asked, looking incredulous. “Is that even possible?”

“Apparently,” Father Gilbert said. “I’m sure it’ll wear off in a few days—a fortnight at the most—but it knocked out _all_ of my omniscience.”

Adam just stared at him. “ _All_ of it?”

Father Gilbert grimaced. “You understand why I phoned you.”

“We need to keep this under wraps,” Adam said. “How long has it been? If we lay low everything should be fine—you can get by without omniscience for a while, surely—”

“It’s worse than that,” Father Gilbert said. “I don’t know how it happened, but the future changed. At some point after I ate the pear, something happened, some domino effect that pushed the world off the path the Plan had set it on.”

Adam stared at him.

“What kind of change?” Beth asked. “How large of a domino effect?”

“…Crowley,” Bert realised.

Adam and Beth turned to look at him.

Bert looked between them. “That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it? Crowley?”

Father Gilbert nodded, expression pained.

Adam rounded on Father Gilbert. “What’s he talking about? What’s happened to Crowley? Is he all right?”

Father Gilbert shot Bert an uneasy glance. “I’m not sure. Earlier today, someone hit him with a car and kidnapped him.”

 _“Holy hell,”_ Adam swore. “And Aziraphale?”

“Ran off after him.”

“Sod it all, Gilbert, you’re supposed to be the responsible one!” Adam strode away, apparently too restless to remain in one place, and began to pace across the grass in front of Aziraphale’s grave.

“What did you do?” Beth questioned. “What activities, I mean? Did you run into anyone or do anything out of the ordinary? Maybe we can trace the domino effect and find out what happened to Crowley that way.”

“I was keeping my head down,” Father Gilbert said defensively. “I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. That’s why I didn’t phone you right away. I figured any chain reactions I caused I could just correct after the pear wore off.”

“Are you sure it _was_ something you did?” Beth asked. “Not something that would have happened anyway?”

“Almost certainly,” Father Gilbert said at the same time that Adam, striding back towards them, said, “It has to be.”

Father Gilbert glanced at Adam.

“You said the Plan was complete,” Adam explained. “So the future should have been fine, right? You would have seen something this catastrophic coming.”

“Yes,” Father Gilbert agreed. “But I’m less concerned with _how_ it happened than _why_ Crowley was kidnapped. He’s a seraph, so not just anyone could have done it. Someone’s definitely behind this, working against the Plan and actively changing history. I was hoping you could help me find out who that is.” He looked at Adam.

Adam slowed to a stop. “You know my omniscience is spotty at best.”

“Whoever it is is changing the future in a big way. They should be easy to spot. And right now you’ve got the only omniscience between us.”

Adam grimaced. “I can try, I suppose.”

“We need to put a stop to this as soon as possible,” Father Gilbert added. “This future won’t be secure for a while yet. We’re still in the critical zone, and with Golgoth on the brink of unFalling and Crowley and Aziraphale missing there’re too many variables, too many things that can go wrong.”

“I agree,” Adam said, beginning to pace again, “but what about not meddling in the affairs of others? I thought you were letting them make their own path.”

“The domino effect _had_ to have either been started by me,” Father Gilbert insisted, “or by some random bit of circumstance so unlikely that it didn’t even register when I was looking at the multiverse. So it’s either my fault or just a bit of bad luck, and either way I’m putting an end to it. I won’t have this universe ruined after six thousand years because of some _pear_.”

Adam grunted in understanding, continuing to pace back and forth.

“Why’d you eat one in the first place?” Beth asked.

A slightly guilty look crossed Father Gilbert’s face. “Curiosity,” he admitted. “I couldn’t tell what the Tree did because it was blocking out that part of the multiverse—I thought it was a Schrödinger’s cat situation, but it turned out that that was just because blocking out the multiverse is what it _does_.”

“Great, just great, he gets curious and there goes our holiday,” Adam muttered.

“You can reschedule your holiday,” Father Gilbert snapped. “We need to get to whoever’s behind this. If you’re quite done berating me over it, let’s actually fix the problem before someone gets killed.”

That brought Adam to a halt.

“He’s right,” Beth said. “This is no time to point fingers. Adam, check if you can see anything.”

Adam made a disgruntled noise but closed his eyes obligingly, apparently to help him better see things beyond human sight.

“You’re looking for a knot,” Father Gilbert said. “A place where many threads come together, a catalyst for many events.”

“I know what a lynchpin looks like,” Adam muttered.

There was a moment of silence in which Bert leaned over to Beth and asked quietly, “Who’s Golgoth?”

“I think I found something,” Adam said after a long moment. “Someone malicious who’s causing the timeline to bend, right?”

“Yes,” Father Gilbert said quickly. “Who is it? Where are they?”

“Give me a mo,” Adam said, eyes still closed.

Father Gilbert waited anxiously, feeling precious time slipping through his fingers.

“Gotcha,” Adam said after nearly a minute. “Oh, well, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Who is it?” Father Gilbert asked as Adam opened his eyes and rubbed at an eyelid.

“My old friend the Metatron,” Adam said. “And they’re definitely meddling in a big way. Guess failing to bring about the Apocalypse didn’t sit well with them.”

“The Metatron,” Father Gilbert repeated slowly, feeling the shape of the name on his tongue. He remembered Metatron, remembered creating him as one of the final angels, forming him with all the strength he would need to be a good leader. He had appointed Metatron as His speaker, a position that had started as little more than chief messenger and slowly grown to be much more. After God had decided it was time to take a backseat and let His creations run the world He had given them, the Metatron had risen to become the chief angel in Heaven, organising the archangels under himself and dividing administrative duties between them. The Metatron had spoken with the Voice of God—not truly God’s own words most of the time, but simply His authority—and ‘he’ had become ‘they,’ so that anyone speaking to the Metatron would remember that he— _they_ —had God alongside them as well.

In recent centuries, the Metatron had grown more and more possessive of Heaven as they had evidently realised that God didn’t intend on returning anytime soon. At the point in time when Gilbert had eaten the pear, the Metatron had been the de facto ruler of Heaven, and perhaps the domino effect—whatever it was—had incentivised them to take a more direct hand in events than they usually had.

“They definitely have motive,” Adam said. “I stopped the Apocalypse, but Crowley and Aziraphale were right there as well, and the Metatron probably didn’t forget that.”

“This could become very bad very quickly,” Father Gilbert agreed worriedly, turning the matter over in his head. “And since they are a _seraph_ —I’ll have to deal with them myself.”

“Hey—what?” Adam asked as Father Gilbert started striding away. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Heaven,” Father Gilbert said, hearing the sounds of the others following him across the cemetery. “The Metatron’s bound to be there, and I’m probably the only person they’ll listen to.”

“Are you mad?” Adam asked. “Without your omniscience? You’re just as liable to make it worse as to make it better!”

“Everyone else gets by without omniscience,” Father Gilbert shot back.

“And what’ll all the angels say when they see _Father Gilbert_ wandering around in Heaven?” Adam challenged. “Are you going to show yourself?”

“I’ll do what it takes,” Father Gilbert replied, continuing to stride away.

“You’re throwing the Plan entirely off the rails, aren’t you?” Adam accused, still hastening after him. “If we keep our heads down, we might be able to nudge it back on track, but you’re determined to just throw the whole thing away—”

Father Gilbert abruptly stopped walking and rounded on his grandson. “I’m _not_ throwing the Plan away,” he growled. “I _made_ the Plan, don’t forget. I _will_ keep my head down, but if it comes down to God making His first public appearance in several millennia or Crowley or one of the others winding up dead, you’d better believe I won’t hesitate.”

Adam slowed, looking a little abashed. “I know—”

“Do you? Do you _know_ what I put Crowley and Aziraphale—the _world_ —through, for _six millennia_ , to get this far? I will go take care of the Metatron and put this right. But I _will_ be careful, because I _appreciate_ how delicate the multiverse is, seeing as how I _created_ _it_ and all.”

“No need to get snappy,” Adam said defensively, folding his arms. “I just don’t want you going off and doing something rash that might have consequences neither of us can foresee.”

Father Gilbert took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “Look, I know you’re just trying to help, but what I need is for you to stay here and guard the Tree while I’m gone.”

 _“Guard the Tree?”_ Adam echoed incredulously. “You can’t be serious. If you’re going on this crazy foxhunt, I’m coming with.”

“The pear’s effects will be temporary for me,” Father Gilbert reminded his grandson, “but if a human eats one it may very well be permanent. I can’t afford more blind spots in my vision.”

“Then someone else can look after it,” Adam protested, and his gaze fell on Bert, who, along with Beth, had followed them across the cemetery. “Like—Bert! He can look after the Tree.”

Bert opened his mouth to respond but Father Gilbert spoke over him, addressing Adam. “I can pass as human, even among the angels, but everyone knows who you are. You’d draw all sorts of attention.”

“You just said you didn’t care about attracting attention!” Adam protested.

“If it comes to that,” Father Gilbert stressed. “As a _last resort_. But if I can make it to the Metatron without setting off any major chains of events and then reveal myself only to them, I should be able to make them see sense. They are the Voice of _God_ , after all.”

“You can disguise me,” Adam tried. “Hide my aura. It’d be useful to have even a little bit of omniscience on your side.”

“Look, Adam, I appreciate it—”

“Crowley and Aziraphale are my friends,” Adam spoke over him. “And I happen to live on this planet. I want to help.”

“And you _can_ help,” Father Gilbert said. “By staying here and making sure no one gets to the Tree. And if Aziraphale returns, we’ll need someone to intercept him.”

Adam opened his mouth to protest further, but Father Gilbert beat him to it, laying a paternal hand on his grandson’s shoulder.

“Look, Adam, you have a family to think about.”

“I’d be fine,” Adam said hotly.

“You’re immune to a lot, but there are divine weapons in Heaven that could kill even you. It’s better that I go alone.”

“That’s just an excuse,” Adam muttered.

“With luck, I won’t be gone very long at all,” Father Gilbert said placatingly. “But since I won’t be able to see what’s going on down here, if anything happens outside of Heaven I need you to make sure no one gets killed.”

“Hrmpf,” Adam said, but seemed to accept this as a valid point.

“Redemption can come to anyone,” Father Gilbert said, “but it’s hard to help someone who’s dead. Keep everyone alive.”

“…yeah, okay,” Adam allowed.

Father Gilbert clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you.”

“If it all goes pear-shaped, I’m coming after you,” Adam warned.

“Ha, ha?” Bert ventured, and everyone ignored him.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Father Gilbert said, nodding to Adam and Beth and then resuming his departure from the cemetery. He’d only gone a few metres before he noticed that Bert was jogging after him.

“Fath—uh, sir!”

“Another pun you’d like to point out, Bert?” Father Gilbert asked without stopping.

“Sorry about that,” Bert said. “So if you’re going to Heaven, I was wondering if I could, um, come with?”

Father Gilbert frowned over at Bert as he settled into a trot next to him. “I suppose you want to help too?”

Bert nodded quickly. “Crowley’s one of my best mates, and I saw what that car did. If this Metatron person has it out for him and Ziraphale, I want to help. Maybe I could be an extra pair of eyes. I’ll do exactly as you say.”

Father Gilbert continued to frown as he angled his footsteps towards the road. It would be hard for him to protect someone as reckless and headstrong as Adam, who would likely dash off after his own nose at the first opportunity, but he couldn’t deny that it would be good to have an extra pair of eyes, especially since his own had recently become so blinded.

On the other hand, introducing another factor into the equation was risky, and he didn’t feel comfortable guaranteeing anyone’s safety right now. Besides, Bert had earned his own happy ending, and Father Gilbert didn’t want to jeopardise that.

“It’s too dangerous,” Father Gilbert dismissed.

Bert nodded quickly. “I really don’t mind, sir. I understand the risks.”

“The answer’s no, Bert. You should go home.” As they reached the edge of the cemetery, Father Gilbert glanced back over at the Tree, where he could see Adam and Beth talking.

“Do Aziraphale and Crowley know you’re God?” Bert asked, voice suddenly bold.

Father Gilbert’s gaze moved back to Bert in surprise. “What?”

“Do they know you’re God?” Bert repeated. “That you’ve been hiding here in Midfarthing all along?”

“First of all,” Father Gilbert said as he started along the pavement, “I’m not _hiding_. And secondly, no, they don’t know.”

“Hm,” Bert said in a tone of voice Father Gilbert didn’t like at all. “So shall I phone Aziraphale and tell him right now?”

Bert started pulling his mobile out of his pocket and Father Gilbert came to an abrupt standstill. “What do you want, Bert?”

“I want to come with,” Bert said immediately. “To Heaven.”

Father Gilbert frowned at him. “It’s not safe,” he repeated. “And I don’t care if you tell Aziraphale and Crowley who I am. I’ve been meaning to do it anyway; they have a right to know. But I’ll probably have to leave Midfarthing once they find out, so I admit that I’ve been keeping it to myself. But you figured out who I am of your own free will, so I won’t stand in your way if you want to spread it around.”

Bert looked taken aback and then rather embarrassed. “Oh. Sorry.”

Father Gilbert resumed walking along the pavement, but after another moment Bert had caught up with him again.

“So you respect free will, then?”

“Yes,” Father Gilbert ground out, wishing Bert would just go home.

“What about my free will to…to…come with?” Bert asked. “Would you deny me my choice?”

Father Gilbert stopped walking again, closing his eyes and raising a hand to rub the bridge of his nose.

“I just want to see Heaven, sir,” Bert said.

Father Gilbert gave up. “All right, fine, you can come along, but _please_ keep your head down. And stop calling me ‘sir’.”

“Sorry, uh, Lord.”

“That’s even worse.”

They walked a little further down the road until they were well out of sight of the Tree and Adam’s car. Father Gilbert slowed to a halt and Bert stopped beside him.

Father Gilbert put one hand on Bert’s shoulder.

“Whoa, what’re you doing?” Bert asked.

“Going to Heaven.”

“Are you going to—like—zap us there?”

Father Gilbert blinked at him in confusion. “…yes?”

“Oh, brilliant.”

Father Gilbert adjusted his grip and reached for space, beginning to warp it around them.

“Where in Heaven are we going?”

“Are you going to ask this many questions the whole time?”

“Sorry.”

Father Gilbert held one fold of space close to them and reached for another, hoping to make the transfer slow enough that he wouldn’t knock Bert out. “We’re going to somewhere in Heaven where no one ever is,” Father Gilbert said by way of explanation, “so that no one sees us pop up out of thin air.”

“Oh, cool,” Bert said. “Um, and where is that?”

Father Gilbert smiled as he found the fold of space he was looking for and drew it nearer, preparing to move them from one point to another far faster than any physics would allow. “Where else? The library.”

 

~~***~~

 

“You’re certain?” Lucifer pressed, leaning further over the lithe frame of Borchat, Hell’s finest messenger. “Beelzebub didn’t give you any manner of message to send?”

Borchat quickly shook his head and tried to shrink further against the wall Lucifer had backed him up against. “Not today, my lord.”

Lucifer stared down at the low-ranking demon with such intensity that Aziraphale began to feel uneasy just being in the same room. Something in Lucifer’s demeanour had changed as they’d waited for Borchat to arrive, his sarcastic but somewhat agreeable personality vanishing like ice beneath the sweltering sun. He was downright intimidating now, and the effect was stronger than could be accounted for by the darkness in his eyes and the weight of the seraph’s power hanging in the air. His very presence was a heavy weight, demanding compliance, loyalty, and absolute obedience from all under its thrall.

“You are _absolutely certain?”_ Lucifer stressed, voice chilling. “Remember who you are speaking to.”

Borchat nodded hastily, looking suitably terrified. “Absolutely.”

Lucifer scowled for a moment more and then leaned back, took his hand off the wall, and motioned to Borchat that he could leave.

“Is there someone else Beelzebub could have given the message to?” Aziraphale ventured when he had gone. “Another messenger, perhaps?”

Lucifer’s mouth twisted, the darkness in his eyes receding as he relaxed. “It is possible.” He was silent for a long moment. “Though I hate to think it, there is another possibility to entertain. Come along.”

Lucifer strode out of the throne room and Aziraphale followed. They ascended several circles, demons quickly flitting out of their way and then sticking their heads out from the crevices they’d taken refuge in as the unusual pair passed.

The dark walls became rough, unpolished stone, and when they rounded a corner Aziraphale suddenly recognised where they were.

He felt his heart skip a beat as Lucifer strode purposefully down the hall towards a locked and guarded door beyond which lay Hell’s vault. It was from there that Aziraphale had stolen the fragment of the Ten Commandments that had eventually revealed Crowley to be a seraph, and it was here, just outside, that Aziraphale had fallen to his knees as he’d felt Crowley’s life snuffed out.

It took Aziraphale a moment to push the memory away, comforting himself with the warm feeling in his chest that assured him that Crowley was alive and well, if separated from him. He hurried to catch up with Lucifer as the guard hastily unlocked the door and stepped aside.

“This is Hell’s treasury,” Lucifer said as he strode inside. Aziraphale, wondering how he had ever wound up in such a situation that he would be shown this room as a guest, trailed after him. “We were keeping the sword that unlocks the Northern Gate to Eden here.”

Lucifer immediately started past the piles of treasure, and Aziraphale allowed himself a more thorough look than the last time he had been here. A great deal of it was gold and gems, but the room was littered with more unusual artefacts as well: carved staffs, hides, music boxes, jade statues, strangely coloured rocks, and something that looked like a chunk of salt.

Lucifer’s voice floated towards Aziraphale from among the heaps of treasure. “I understand it might take Beelzebub and Crowley a little longer than anticipated to reach Eden because we’re not entirely sure where exactly the Northern Gate is, but we have a good estimate of its location.”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement and padded after Lucifer around the colossal pile of gold resting in the centre of the room. “Where’d you even get all of this, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Lucifer glanced over at him from where he was pulling drawers open in an intricate ebony cabinet with _pietra dura_ inlays. “Sinners, mostly. Most of the time a soul is more valuable than whatever worldly goods are offered in a deal, but sometimes you can let a soul go for a fine enough treasure. And about half of it’s cursed, so I wouldn’t be getting too light-fingered.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, quickly putting his hands in his pockets even though he’d had no intention of partaking in petty theft in front of the King of Hell.

Lucifer continued pulling drawers out of the cabinet and shoving them back in after glancing over their contents.

“Are you looking for something?” Aziraphale asked.

Lucifer made a noise of agreement. “A pair of handcuffs, just normal metal, with some glyphs on them.”

Aziraphale started glancing over the nearest pile of treasure. A long, spiralling silvery horn with hints of pink emerged from the pile nearby, and he pulled it out and started poking at promising-looking bits of silver emerging from the pile of gold with its tip.

“It shouldn’t be buried too deep,” Lucifer said as Aziraphale sent a small shower of gold coins minted over four different millennia cascading down the side of the pile of treasure, the bits of metal tinkling against each other as they fell.

“Okay,” Aziraphale said, circling the pile and poking at it further, though he was becoming increasingly distracted by the beautifully inlaid cabinets behind him, which held everything from crossbows and curved Indian daggers to crowns and gilded nautilus shell goblets.

Aziraphale prodded with the tip of the horn at something curved and silver emerging from the pile of gold and a silver goblet appeared, glyphs ringing its lip. Aziraphale recognised the writing as Enochian, decided it was probably cursed, and quickly looked somewhere else. His gaze fell on the top of a small wooden box that had become visible from Aziraphale’s rummaging among the coins. There was writing carved into its lid, and Aziraphale recognised it in surprise as the language of the ancient Israelites.

Curious, he pushed away the jewels and gold sitting partially atop it with the tip of the horn and then reached over to open the lid.

Inside was a ring of the type worn for many centuries only by kings, with a solid gold band and a large, thick disc with the reverse of a seal carved into it.

“Oh, so that’s where that got to,” Lucifer’s voice said from over Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he jumped, letting the lid slap back down.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said.

“The Seal of Solomon,” Lucifer said, looking at the box pensively. “Quite a powerful relic.”

Aziraphale looked back at the box in surprise. He’d never seen the Seal in person before but had heard about it; everyone had. It was claimed that the sigil engraved on the seal could be used to trap demons.

“Did you, er, find the handcuffs?” Aziraphale asked.

Lucifer frowned and started back towards the treasury’s door. “No.”

“What did you need them for?”

“Nothing, really,” Lucifer said as he motioned for Aziraphale to precede him out of the room. “Just wondering if they were still here.”

“And since they’re not, that means…?”

Lucifer paused outside the vault as the guard locked the door behind them. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to look into some other things.”

Aziraphale nodded. While it was troubling that Crowley’s message to him had somehow gone awry, it seemed that Crowley _was_ all right, and would be back before long. Since he’d likely be returning to Hell with Beelzebub, it seemed prudent for Aziraphale to simply wait here for his return. He ought to phone Kazariel as well, and let her know that he’d figured out where Crowley was.

He had only begun following Lucifer back the way they’d come when he caught a whiff of the very familiar smell of old leather and parchment. His head turned unerringly in the direction of Hell’s library, just around the corner from the treasure vault.

“Say, you don’t mind if I page through a couple of books in your library, do you?” Aziraphale asked. “Perhaps borrow a couple? I would be most interested to see what you’ve squirrelled away down here.”

Lucifer shrugged. “Go ahead. You know where to find me.”

Aziraphale nodded and waited until Lucifer had gone before strolling over to the doorway to the library. He could already faintly hear the calls for rescue from the books chained to the narrow, half-rotten shelves inside, and not all of them were in his imagination.

Perhaps, before Crowley returned, Aziraphale would have time for a little _liberation_.


	10. The Tree of Life

Bert didn’t see the way Heaven’s library unfolded around Father Gilbert and himself as space-time sorted itself out; all he knew was that one second he had been standing in Midfarthing and the next he was somewhere else entirely.

A rush of nausea hit him, almost like whiplash, and he felt Father Gilbert’s hand tighten on his shoulder.

“Steady on.”

As the nausea passed, Bert glanced around at their surroundings, still not quite able to believe they had actually teleported. Tall bookcases rose around them, their handsome shelves filled with rows of neatly ordered and impeccably dusted books. A row of diamond-shaped cubbies filled with scrolls ran along the bottom of each bookcase, and a tall window was set into the wall at one end of the aisle, casting bright golden light across a rolling ladder and illuminating each mote of dust hanging in the air. To his other side, Bert could see a sliver of the main body of the library, filled with tables bearing green reading lamps.

“Where—this is—?”

“Heaven’s library,” Father Gilbert supplied. “If the librarian hasn’t changed, we should be the only ones here.”

Father Gilbert started striding purposefully down the aisle towards the reading tables and Bert trailed after him, still a little dazed. He happened to catch sight of the ceiling, and he craned his head back as he followed Father Gilbert, taking in the star-studded vaults and gilded entablatures running along the tops of the walls.

Father Gilbert led them unerringly through the library until Bert spotted a glimpse of blue sky up ahead. The section of the library they were in terminated in a large arch that stretched all the way to the vaulted ceiling. Beyond it lay some sort of antechamber, the ceiling there painted cobalt blue and dotted with gold and silver stars forming unfamiliar constellations. On the far side of the antechamber stood a pair of giant moulded bronze doors. These were wide open, and it was past them that Bert could see a glimpse of sky.

They were only ten metres away when Bert dropped his gaze from the vaulted ceiling and realised that there was something in their path, under the first arch.

More accurately, there was some _one_ in their path. A figure was seated on a tall stool in front of an even taller desk, his back to them. Two wings sprouted from his back, and though it was clear that they had once been white, they appeared almost tan, weighted down with what looked like dust.

Father Gilbert motioned to Bert to be quiet, but before the barman could even begin to muffle his footsteps the wings of the angel on the stool twitched and their owner looked over his shoulder.

He didn’t appear to be much older than Bert, but there was something in the set of his face that made Bert think he had made a hobby of yelling at kids to get off his lawn. This effect wasn’t helped by the fact that he was currently glaring daggers at them. Bert, not wanting to get on the wrong side of the first angel he’d met in Heaven, quickly ground to a halt.

Father Gilbert, on the other hand, seemed entirely unperturbed, striding forward and giving the angel a broad smile. “Harahel! Still here, I see.”

The angel—Harahel—narrowed his eyes. Bert watched a small cloud of dust float free from his wings as they twitched irritably.

“How’d you get in here?” Harahel growled. His eyes moved from the pair of intruders to the library behind them, as though looking for signs of a break-in. “Climb in through a window?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Father Gilbert said breezily. “If you don’t mind, we’ll just be on our way.”

“You will most definitely _not_ be _on your way_ ,” Harahel said, stepping down and off his stool.

He was somehow even more terrifying standing on his own two feet, despite the fact that he was considerably shorter without the stool. His wings fanned out slightly behind him, blocking their path.

“Really, Harahel—” Father Gilbert began.

“You have _broken into_ my library,” Harahel hissed, eyes moving from Father Gilbert to Bert. _“Thieves_ , no doubt. And, from the looks of you, _escapees_ from Azrael.”

Bert moved closer to Father Gilbert and resisted the urge to ask who Azrael was.

“You won’t be going _anywhere_ until I have checked every codex, scroll, and tablet in this library for damage or _theft_. And believe me when I say that you will be _fined_ as appropriate.”

Despite Harahel’s harsh tone, Bert was beginning to realise that he wasn’t actually intending on _doing_ anything to them.

“You have doubtlessly had your unwashed fingers _all over_ my books, smearing oil onto the parchment, haven’t you?” Harahel continued, taking a step closer and sounding honestly distressed despite his ominous tone. “Putting them back in the wrong order, leaving them out in sunlight, setting them down on their spines—you—you— _barbarians_.”

Bert leaned closer to Father Gilbert. “He reminds me of Ziraphale.”

Harahel’s gaze riveted itself on Bert as Father Gilbert smiled and nodded.

 _“Aziraphale?”_ Harahel rumbled. All at once, his expression shifted to irritated understanding. “Of course you _would_ be with him, the arrogant boy, sending all sorts of _humans_ into my library at all times of day—”

Bert blinked in surprise. “Hang on, you know Ziraphale?”

 _“Know_ him?” Harahel echoed in that dusty voice of his. “I practically _raised_ him.”

“And you did a fine job of it,” Father Gilbert said appeasingly. “But we are good friends of his, so I don’t suppose we could just be on our way?”

“We didn’t touch any books,” Bert promised.

Harahel glared at them in turn but seemed to have given up any hope of detaining them. “Like I can bloody well stop you,” he rumbled, wings beginning to fold. “When you see Aziraphale again, do tell him that I don’t appreciate his sending people to _traipse_ about my library.”

“Absolutely,” Father Gilbert said placatingly. “You’re doing fantastic, by the way. We’ll just be off, then…” He started edging around one of Harahel’s wings, Bert following close behind.

“How _did_ you get in?” Harahel asked as they slipped past him, expression still glowering. “So I can repair the damage.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Father Gilbert said breezily, quickly striding across the large antechamber and towards the set of open doors. “Come along, Bert.”

 

~~***~~

 

“It’s…oh. It’s beautiful.”

“The Tree’s this way,” Crowley said, pointing into the Garden towards where he knew the Tree of Life lay, the memory of his last visit to Eden bright in his mind.

Beelzebub drew the Edenic sword from the craggy rock that served as the keyhole for the Northern Gate, the Iranian landscape growing hazy and muted behind them as the gate closed.

“I’ve never been here,” Beelzebub said as he followed Crowley into Eden. “Not even before the Fall. I only heard of its wonders.”

“Yeah, it’s nice,” Crowley said noncommittally. He too thought it was quite breathtaking, and had reacted much the same as Beelzebub when he had visited with Aziraphale a few years ago, but he didn’t see any point in sharing that with Beelzebub.

“And Eden has been here this whole time?” Beelzebub asked as Crowley padded further into Eden, the view of the desert behind them becoming steadily obscured by tree branches. “Tucked away on Earth?”

“Yep,” Crowley agreed, veering around a thick clump of trees. Despite his desire to appear unruffled in front of Beelzebub, Eden _was_ very beautiful, and Crowley found himself admiring the vibrant lushness of the place despite himself. There was a sort of warmth here, too, seeping into every leaf, fern, and blade of grass, seeming to glow with the aftertaste of Creation. He was reminded of the fateful day he had slithered here to tempt Eve, and how it had led to him meeting Aziraphale.

Beelzebub must have been absorbed in his own thoughts, because he didn’t say anything else for a long while, Crowley leading them steadily through the Garden. If Beelzebub noticed that Crowley accidentally led them in a circle more than once, a little lost in the unfamiliar northern part of Eden, he didn’t seem to mind.

Even with Crowley’s poor navigation, it wasn’t long before they stepped out into a perfectly circular clearing. In its centre stood the Tree of Life, tall and almost perfectly symmetrical, the most aesthetically appealing peach tree anyone had ever seen.

“Well, there she is,” Crowley said, coming to a halt as Beelzebub followed him out of the forest. Beelzebub took in the Tree for a moment and then glanced around the quiet clearing, a few birds singing sweetly from nearby.

“Here’s the warding,” Crowley continued, striding into the clearing and stopping well clear of the lattice of thin silver lines lying over the grass around the base of the Tree. They formed a large circle inscribed with a forty-nine-point star, the edge of the sigil significantly outside the overhang of even the Tree’s longest branches. The last time Crowley had been here, he had stepped into the sigil to retrieve a peach for Aziraphale. He had only barely made it out of the circle with his life, and had been stripped of his powers semi-permanently.

He wasn’t eager to repeat the experience, so he waved Beelzebub over. “Here are the signatures of the casters,” Crowley said, walking a metre or so around the circumference of the sigil and pointing to eight small circles tucked near its edge, each containing a complicated geometric symbol.

“The seal of the Metatron,” Beelzebub recognised.

“And the seven archangels,” Crowley agreed. “Together, as powerful as two seraphim.”

Beelzebub made a noise of agreement and started off around the Tree, glancing from the boughs heavy with peaches to the edges of the clearing, as though trying to memorise the space.

As Beelzebub oriented himself, Crowley took a few pensive paces away from the Tree and sent reassuring thoughts in Aziraphale’s direction. He could still feel Aziraphale’s worry, but it had diminished significantly in the last hour or so, and he hoped that that meant Aziraphale had received his letter. It was mid-evening already, but, with the time difference and a bit of luck, he might be able to make it home in time for a late dinner. Perhaps he and Aziraphale could track Bert down tomorrow and give him his anniversary present. Crowley suddenly recalled that he’d been holding the bottle of brandy when he’d been hit by the car, and wondered forlornly if it had survived the accident.

Beelzebub returned from his circuit around the Tree a few moments later, eyeing its peaches with interest.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?” Crowley asked, rolling up the three-quarter sleeves of his suit jacket. “Lucifer said you were bringing something to help break the sigil?”

Beelzebub nodded, glanced once more around the clearing, and drew a beautiful necklace from a deep pocket in his cassock.

“… _that’s_ what Lucifer imbued with some of his power?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“It’s imbued with power, just not _Lucifer’s_ ,” Beelzebub corrected. “This necklace is cursed. The two of us can equal the power of the sigil, but to break it we need a little extra—whatever scrap of power resides in this necklace should be plenty.”

“And you just…keep those things lying around?”

“Something like that,” Beelzebub agreed, unsheathing the Edenic sword and awkwardly tying the necklace around the base of the grip. “I thought we could use the sword to physically break the sigil. It won’t hold our power for more than a few minutes, but that should be plenty. We’ll just put our seals here,” Beelzebub pointed to the base of the sword’s blade, “and cut through the sigil with the tip.”

“Ah,” Crowley said, watching as Beelzebub traced his finger over the base of the blade. A small circular seal appeared under his finger, not quite etched into the metal but glowing faintly. Beelzebub handed the sword to Crowley.

Crowley took it gingerly. “Er, what if I don’t have a seal?”

Beelzebub blinked at him. “What do you mean? Are you sure?”

“Very.”

“He didn’t…” Beelzebub waved a hand vaguely. “Give you one?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I wasn’t exactly in class the day Father handed them out, if that’s what you mean.”

Beelzebub narrowed his eyes. “Well, you have a signature, right? A true name? Just use that.”

Crowley frowned and turned his eyes down to the sword. He had had many names over the millennia, and the first two he hadn’t liked very much at all. But he supposed that the name God had given him was the one Beelzebub meant, so he traced the shape of _Phanuel_ on the blade of the sword, right under Beelzebub’s seal.

When he lifted his finger, he watched a circle write itself around the name, solidifying the design into a seal. Crowley handed the sword back to Beelzebub.

“All right,” Beelzebub said, adjusting his grip on the hilt of the sword. He strode the few metres towards the sigil and stopped next to where the eight seals of its creators lay, locking its power in. He hefted the sword and gazed down at the sigil. Crowley waited for him to get on with it, but Beelzebub just took a breath and scanned the clearing around them yet again.

And then, all at once, Crowley realised that Beelzebub wasn’t just looking around—he was looking _for_ _someone_.

“Here it goes.”

Crowley took a step forward and opened his mouth, a bolt of unease racing through him.

Before he could speak, Beelzebub had lowered the sword and run the tip across the edge of the sigil. The blade of the sword glowed faintly, white light spilling off of it, and the silver threads of the sigil parted under the blade like strands of spun sugar under a warm knife.

“Wait,” Crowley said, taking another step closer. There was something wrong with the air, something shimmering in an unnatural way, like an optical illusion gone wrong. In front of Beelzebub, the silver threads of the sigil were vaporising, fading to nothing as the sigil broke, defeated by a higher power.

Beelzebub glanced over his shoulder at Crowley, sword slack in his hand and a question on his lips. Then his eyes slid straight past Crowley.

There was no telltale crinkle of grass underfoot, only the flash of an unfamiliar presence as the shimmering in the air fell away, revealing an aura that had been very well concealed but was now too close to evade Crowley’s detection. Crowley spun, but he was too late—far too late.

A flash of pain raced through his side, followed a moment later by something hitting him solidly in the shoulder, forcing him to take an uneven step sideways to keep his balance.

It was only then that he saw the Metatron, saw their back as they strode straight past Crowley and towards Beelzebub, a blood-slick sword in their hand.

“Wh—what—” Beelzebub stammered as the Metatron approached. Beelzebub took an automatic step backwards, into the space where the sigil was finishing fading away. “Why did you do that?”

Crowley was beginning to register that he had been hurt, his hand going to his left side as it went numb and then flared into pain so quickly he saw stars.

“Bringing _him_ along wasn’t part of the agreement,” the Metatron growled, still advancing on Beelzebub.

Beelzebub seemed to realise that he was in danger, and he raised the Edenic sword in his defence. The Metatron knocked it out of his hand with a single practised stroke.

Crowley took an unsteady step backwards and looked numbly down at himself. He was surprised to see blood soaking his shirt, the bright red stain spreading across the fabric like a drop of dye entering water. He pulled his hand briefly away from his side and was equally surprised to see that his palm was completely coated with blood, more pouring from the roughly horizontal gash in his side as he watched. He began to feel very lightheaded, and when his knees gave out he was all too willing to sink to the ground.

By the Tree, Beelzebub had given up fighting and was sprinting away, ducking around the trunk to put some space between himself and the Metatron.

Panic was beginning to register in Crowley’s mind now, a distant sort of panic that didn’t seem to belong to him. But it cut through the numb haze in his mind, kick-starting his own adrenaline and fighting against the shock.

Under the Tree of Life, Beelzebub reached up and grabbed a peach, the branch bowing as the fruit snapped free. He raised it to his mouth to take a bite, and that was when the Metatron ran him through.

Crowley watched hazily as the blood-smeared tip of the Metatron’s sword emerged from Beelzebub’s chest, feeling like he was falling asleep watching a television programme. The sword twisted and withdrew as Beelzebub’s hand convulsed on the peach and his body collapsed.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

 

~~***~~

 

Beelzebub sucked in a rattling breath and took a hasty step forward as he tried to evade the Metatron, automatically pulling his hand back to his chest as he did so.

The Metatron, though, had vanished. The clearing was empty except for the Tree, but when Beelzebub reached out for its trunk for support, his hand passed right through it.

THIS IS MOST IRREGULAR, said a voice from behind Beelzebub that seemed to encompass the universe.

Beelzebub spun and took an instinctive step backwards as he came face-to-face with Death himself.

“H—holy,” Beelzebub stammered, staring at the skeleton in front of him. “Did I—wait—you’re… _Ishtyr?”_

Death didn’t respond.

“Lucifer sent me,” Beelzebub said quickly. “Venus, I mean.”

Death remained motionless, the blue pinpricks of light in his darkened eye sockets downcast slightly.

“He wishes to speak with you,” Beelzebub said eagerly, taking a step forward. Then the full realisation of what must have happened hit him. He couldn’t take a message back to Lucifer, couldn’t bring him the peach like he’d asked, couldn’t do much of anything at all anymore—this was it.

WHAT IS THAT IN YOUR HAND? Death asked.

Beelzebub was so preoccupied with his own recent demise that it took him a moment to process Death’s words. Then he blinked and looked down at his right hand, the hand he’d reached up into the Tree with just before the Metatron had killed him.

And there, lying in his hand as it had been since Death had taken him, was a beautiful, unblemished peach.

WHEN THE SOULS OF THE DEAD COME TO ME, Death said, THEY APPEAR HOW THEIR SUBCONSCIOUS RENDERS THEM. IT’S THEIR LAST MEMORY—THEIR LAST CONSCIOUS UNDERSTANDING OF THEMSELF—AND YOU—

Beelzebub stared down at the peach. “I had just plucked this,” he said softly. His eyes moved back up to Death. The peach felt very real in his hand.

Death held out a skeletal hand, the sleeve of his black, universe-studded robe falling back.

GIVE ME THAT.


	11. These Mortal Coils

Crowley watched numbly as Beelzebub’s body collapsed forward against the ground, the peach bouncing out of his hand and rolling away across the grass.

The adrenaline was finally beginning to hit him, bringing with it an awareness of the pain in his side and making his heart race. Crowley pressed his hand against his injured side as tightly as he dared, struggling to take a full breath. His skin was slick and slippery under his fingers, and much warmer than it had any business being. He thought that he ought to take his jacket off and use it as a compression, but he didn’t know what would happen if he removed his hand.

Under the Tree, the Metatron had rolled Beelzebub’s body over and was patting down his pockets. A moment later, they stood and began to eye the Tree, blood dripping off the tip of the sword in their hand.

Very belatedly, Crowley remembered his power and fished around for it urgently. He found it and poured it into himself, preparing himself for the shock of healing.

Instead, the pain in his side only grew worse, until it seemed that he must _still_ be being stabbed, pain lancing deep into his core.

“Wh—what—” Crowley stammered breathlessly, vision beginning to veer to static around the edges. He was already sitting on the ground, but his head was ringing worse than ever, the world growing hazy around him. Afraid he might black out if he didn’t get more circulation to his head, he allowed himself to slouch over until he was on his unhurt side in the grass, still clasping his blood-slick side and trying to keep pressure on the wound.

The panic in his chest was being joined by fear now, gripping and all-consuming. Crowley shivered weakly as a wave of chills passed over him, and when he tried to take his next breath it caught in his throat.

There was a very loud _whoosh_ and the abrupt, sudden sound of wood splintering. Crowley’s eyes, which had been beginning to slide closed, shot back open. He propped himself up as far as he dared, side blazing and every inch of him burning with exertion.

Crowley watched dazedly as, under the Tree, the Metatron drew back and tore their sword free from the Tree’s trunk. Fresh flames jumped along the sword’s blade, a few catching on the leaves of the Tree’s lowest branches. Then the Metatron swung again, and the blade of the Edenic sword bit deep and lodged itself in the trunk of the Tree of Life.

Crowley’s sluggish, pain-addled brain put two and two together and finally jumped into high gear. The Metatron was cutting down the _Tree_ , the same Tree that had granted Aziraphale and thereby Crowley effective immortality. Crowley didn’t know exactly how that immortality worked, had never bothered to ask what seemed like a pointless question, but every stroke of the Metatron’s sword against the Tree seemed to tear into the fabric of Crowley’s very being, and through him into Aziraphale.

“Sh—shit,” Crowley gasped, feeling tears of pain roll down his cheeks. He reached inside of himself for his power again and heaped as much of it against his injured side as he could, trying to force himself to heal. His side tingled, and for a moment he lost feeling altogether, but it was back again a moment later, shooting spikes of pain through Crowley’s abdomen, up into his chest, and down along his leg. “Bl—oody hell,” Crowley gasped, and realised with a rush of horror that the sword must have somehow inflicted a wound beyond his ability to heal.

As incredibly worrying as that was, what was even more distressing was the fact that the Tree was beginning to list to one side, peaches dropping onto the ground as the branches sprang up and down with each stroke of the Metatron’s sword. Flames were jumping up the Tree’s trunk, sputtering and climbing higher with each stroke, the Metatron falling into a rhythm. The branches above the Metatron were aflame too now, heavy white smoke beginning to billow into the clear blue sky.

Crowley stared at the Tree in horror and knew that he was powerless to prevent its destruction.

_I—I need to get out of here_.

Crowley twisted his head, trying to see behind himself, towards the edge of the clearing and the shelter afforded by the forest. Out here in the open, the Metatron was sure to see him and return to finish him off as soon as they’d taken care of the Tree. The edge of the forest looked so very far away, though, the stretch of grass between him and it impossibly broad.

He turned his head back around, taking one last look at where the Metatron was still hacking away, the Tree severely listing to one side. He could hear the crackle of the flames, even from this distance, and smell the acrid smoke.

Crowley pulled his hand away from the wound in his side just long enough to miracle a cloth into it. He clapped his hand back over his side a heartbeat later, pressing as hard as he dared and feeling a breathless whine escape his lips. He waited only until his head had cleared and then tried to force himself onto his hands and knees. He didn’t make it very far, though, his side erupting in pain as he tried to balance all of his upper body on a single hand.

He collapsed back to the grass, gasping as he felt something inside of himself lurch sickeningly against the gash in his side. He hastily pressed his hand more tightly against the wound, but the pressure only elicited fresh pain.

“G—God,” Crowley gasped, screwing his eyes shut and struggling to steady himself. He rolled clumsily onto his back and sucked in trembling, aborted breaths, feeling like there was a great weight sitting on his chest.

When he forced his eyes open a moment later, there was a tall column of white smoke above him, staining the brilliant blue of the sky like so much spilled milk. The lush grass of Eden tickled the edges of his cheeks, earthy and somehow so much more friendly than the ethereal grass of Heaven where he had hidden before his Fall. He had been a serpent both then and in Eden, he remembered dimly; that was when he always seemed to appreciate the grass.

_A serpent_.

Crowley drew a deep, shaking breath, adjusted his grip on his side, and rolled as far onto his stomach as he dared. Then he screwed his eyes shut, reached for his power, and shifted.

The pain wasn’t necessarily more manageable, but as Crowley lifted his serpentine head from the grass he knew that he at least had a better chance of making it to safety in this shape.

He had just fixed his gaze on a gap in the treeline directly ahead of him when he heard a tremendous groan from the centre of the clearing. He swung his head back around in time to watch the Metatron give the Tree a final swing from the flaming sword. At the same moment, with no warning, Beelzebub’s body stirred, seemingly of its own volition, and Lucifer appeared out of thin air.

Crowley stared at them in shock, thinking he must be hallucinating.

A heartbeat later, the last strands of the trunk of the Tree of Life splintered and the Tree capsized completely, tilting backwards with an ominous crack. Its branches hit the ground with a tremendous crash and flames shot skyward, clouds of smoke exploding in all directions. Lucifer and Beelzebub, the latter still making his way to his feet, both jumped, and the Metatron took a hasty step backwards.

“How are you—you two—” the Metatron stammered, flames flickering lower along the Edenic sword in their hand.

In the same heartbeat, Crowley felt a pang deep in his chest, not unlike the time Death had pressed his finger directly against the part of Aziraphale’s soul intertwined with his own. As it had then, the sensation took his breath away, leaving him lightheaded and shaken. Then Crowley hastily turned his head back towards the safety of the forest.

He started slithering towards the treeline, moving as quickly as he dared. His side still burned, but Crowley’s serpentine body didn’t require as much effort as his human-shaped one to move himself forward, and he made good progress.

His head was ringing by the time he reached the shelter of the first bush and dove beneath it. He didn’t dare look back, but he could feel the Metatron’s aura somewhere behind him, vying for supremacy with Beelzebub’s. Crowley slithered further into the safety of the forest, dragging himself over roots and rocks and gasping as they wrenched at his wound.

He felt the Metatron’s aura shift and dimly registered that they were coming his way.

Crowley’s eyes darted around the forest, searching for a hiding place. He hurriedly forced his head under a nearby bush, pulling the rest of himself in until he was coiled around the stem, scales scraping against the bottommost branches. One tugged at the edge of his wound and he was grateful he could do no more than hiss his agony.

There came the sound of hurried footsteps from not far away, small tremors passing through the forest floor. Crowley froze, flanks falling as still as he could make them as he heard twigs snapping and leaves being kicked aside. The Metatron’s aura was very bright now, and Crowley tried to make his own as small as possible, hoping to be overlooked.

For a moment, the Metatron’s footsteps paused, but they resumed again a few seconds later, their sounds growing steadily quieter and finally vanishing altogether.

Crowley started breathing again as he felt the Metatron’s aura fade as well. When he tried to slither out from under the bush, however, the prickly branches tore against his scales and ripped open his wound, making him nearly black out.

He hissed, a mixture of pain and frustration, and tried to escape again, hoping to flatten himself enough to break free. It didn’t help any, and for a moment he just stayed there, flanks heaving and blood dripping down his sides as his head rang.

Then he just miracled the entire bush out of existence and shifted back into human form before he could think better of it.

Crowley gasped as the pain hit him anew, and he scrambled into a sitting position, shoving his back against a nearby tree trunk and digging his heels into the soft earth. His heart was hammering in his chest as he clamped his hand and the cloth back over his blood-slick side, his skin unnaturally hot under his frigid fingers. He tipped his head back and ground the rear of his skull against the trunk of the tree, biting back a groan.

“A—Aziraphale,” he managed after a long moment, breath catching uncomfortably in his chest, “oh, angel, wherever you are, you would not believe the day I’m having.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Something’s happening,” Adam said, head snapping up from where he was scrolling through his email on his mobile under the Tree of Free Will.

Beth glanced over at him. “What do you—oh.”

Adam’s omniscience was a bit hit or miss, but this was more than a single timeline altering course—this was the very _fabric_ of the universe changing, the aftershocks rippling across the multiverse. In his mind, he saw the Tree of Life, branches spreading across the sky as usual, but now they were wreathed in smoke, flames licking across its leaves—

“The—the Tree,” Adam stammered, feeling its destruction like a blow. The Tree of Life was one of the oldest things in the universe, not to mention one of the most powerful, and its loss was unthinkable. “The Tree of Life. Someone just burned it.” His voice wasn’t as steady as he would have liked.

When he had brought himself back to the present enough to look over at Beth, he saw that she had come much closer, a steadying hand on his elbow. “The Tree of Life? Isn’t that in Eden?”

Adam nodded mutely.

“Is it—do you think it has to do with Crowley going missing?”

“It has to,” Adam said, worriedly rubbing the back of his neck and gazing at where, not far away, their kids were chasing each other around the tombstones.

“I need to get to Gilbert,” he said at last.

Beth frowned at him. “He wanted you to stay here.”

Adam considered the problem further and returned to the same conclusion. “If Eden’s been compromised, then he needs to know about it. And in his current state, I don’t think he’ll have realised what happened.” Adam stood up.

“Gilbert will be just fine,” Beth said, moving to her feet as well. “He _is_ God, after all.”

“Then God’s in over His head,” Adam said, beginning to stride down the hill. “I have to help.”

“He can handle it,” Beth insisted, following him.

Adam slowed to a stop and turned back to his wife. “He’s up there alone. He’s flying blind and if the Metatron or somebody else is going after the Trees, then there may be things at work here bigger than any of us suspect. That Tree was the only thing keeping Aziraphale immortal, for one thing.”

“But what about _this_ Tree?” Beth pressed, gesturing behind herself. “Like Gilbert said, if anyone eats from it it’ll take them completely off the board.”

“We don’t _both_ need to be here,” Adam said, glancing over Beth’s shoulder and worriedly eyeing their children, Thomas and Annabelle, who were currently engaged in some sort of mock battle. “You can take care of it, I’m sure.”

Beth’s mouth drew itself into a line, and Adam turned and started hurrying away while he still could.

“Adam Charles Young,” Beth said sharply, following him down the tombstone-littered slope. “You are _not_ leaving me here while you go traipsing around getting yourself killed on some foolhardy mission.”

Adam sighed and slowed again. “Look, Beth, it’s not foolhardy. The fate of the universe hangs in the balance. If something goes wrong, and I could have stopped it, how could I ever live with myself?”

Beth frowned at him.

“Remember who I am,” Adam said gently. “I don’t have the option of sitting by while the world burns. I have a responsibility.”

Beth’s expression softened slightly. “You have a responsibility to your family too,” she reminded him.

Adam smiled. “I do, and that’s why I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a parting kiss on the cheek. “You know I’d love to take you with me, except someone really _does_ have to watch the kids.” Over Beth’s shoulder, Adam saw Thomas lob a clump of weeds at Annabelle and then duck down behind a tombstone. “And the Tree, of course, but mostly the kids.”

A resigned sort of smile settled onto Beth’s face. “Fine. One more adventure for you. But I _do_ expect you back in one piece, and not a fortnight from now either, you understand? I didn’t take this much time off work to _not_ spend it in Brighton.”

Adam smiled and gave her another kiss. “Of course. Back before you know it. I should be able to get cell signal, and I’ll call you with any updates.”

“Good man,” Beth said, and pulled him into a brief, proper kiss before swatting him on the shoulder. “Now, off you go before I change my mind. Sometimes I wonder why I married such a rascal.”

Adam took a few steps down the slope and glanced back over his shoulder. “It’s because I’m just so handsome,” he joked. Beth blew a raspberry at him.

Adam was still grinning to himself as he left the cemetery and turned his feet towards a small pond on the outskirts of Midfarthing that he knew was always deserted. He’d be reaching Heaven via portal, and it would be best if he had a little privacy.

His good cheer quickly faded, though, as he reached the path skirting the edge of the village. The destruction of the Tree was serious business, and whoever was behind it had to be stopped before they wreaked truly irreparable damage on the timeline.

 

~~***~~

 

Aziraphale threw open the doors to Hell’s throne room and marched inside, blood rushing in his ears. Lucifer was standing a few paces away, in discussion with a few other demons, one of whom Aziraphale recognised as an archdemon.

“Lucifer,” Aziraphale growled as he advanced, footsteps loud in the narrow hall. “I need a _word_.”

Lucifer broke off his conversation, glanced at Aziraphale, and motioned for the other demons to leave him. They quickly scattered, scuttling in a long detour around Aziraphale and back towards the open door to the hall.

“Did you find the library not to your satisfaction?” Lucifer asked calmly as the last of the demons escaped to safety.

“Forget the library,” Aziraphale growled. “What the _hell_ are you doing to Crowley?”

Lucifer blinked at him. “Sorry?”

Aziraphale continued striding forward, letting Crowley’s power flow through him, the power of a seraph. It crackled at his fingertips, and he let the faintest impression of three sets of flared wings appear in the air behind him. He didn’t have time to play games. “You’re going to call off whatever Beelzebub’s doing to Crowley _right now_ , or I swear to the Almighty that I’ll end you here and now.”

Lucifer took a step back and raised his hands appeasingly. “Calm yourself. I do not know what you mean.”

Aziraphale came to a stop only a metre away, resisting the urge to pin Lucifer to the wall until he talked, King of Hell or not. “Something’s happened to Crowley,” Aziraphale ground out. “Stabbed, or—or similar.” The pain was still racing through him, incredibly sharp and unyielding, emanating from his side. “You sent him and Beelzebub off alone,” Aziraphale continued darkly, “as part of your plan. It was a trap, wasn’t it? What do you want from him?”

A faint look of alarm came into Lucifer’s eyes. “Wait, Crowley’s been stabbed? How do you know? Is Beelzebub all right?”

Aziraphale glared at him, but the slightly worried expression on Lucifer’s face wasn’t consistent with his theory that Lucifer had sent Crowley to his death. He was still trying to decide whether he thought Lucifer’s surprise was faked or not when he felt a sharp pain deep in his chest.

It knocked the air out of him, and he took a reflexive step backwards, releasing his hold on Crowley’s power and reaching for Crowley himself instead, clinging to the knowledge that his partner was at least still alive. The pain began to fade, and Aziraphale took a deep breath, but then it struck deep again, like someone was forcing a sword into his chest.

“…Aziraphale?”

A wave of dizziness rushed over Aziraphale and he took another unsteady step backwards, feeling as though something was being violently stripped away from his very soul.

And then, for the first time in six years, Aziraphale felt the pain of mortality. It hit him like a bullet to the chest, digging deep into his core and lodging there. All at once, he felt time begin to rush past him again, as though he were caught in a fast-moving river that terminated in a waterfall.

Aziraphale moved his hand to his chest as the sharp pain faded, leaving him feeling shaken and oddly vulnerable. The passage of time, which most mortal creatures seemed to tolerate with no ill effects, was painful for a being that had once been immortal and knew what it was like to be outside of time’s grasp. It was like becoming aware of the life cycles of each cell in one’s body, and knowing that senescence would one day be reached, and then everything would stop.

“No…no,” Aziraphale whispered, pressing his hand flat against his chest, each breath seeming to draw him closer to his death. He reached blindly for Crowley and was relieved beyond belief to find him still within easy reach, if in pain and more than a little terrified.

Aziraphale drew a deep breath and found himself unable to rekindle his earlier anger at Lucifer, the emotional effort too taxing. “What have you done?” he rasped.

“I—I don’t—are you all right?”

Aziraphale turned his head up, looking at where Lucifer was hovering nearby, expression alarmed. He really did seem honestly confused.

“The Tree,” Aziraphale said in a toneless voice, realising hollowly what must have occurred. “Someone destroyed the Tree of Life.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Wh—what?” Lucifer stammered at last. “No, you must be mistaken.”

“It’s gone,” Aziraphale said flatly, closing his eyes and focussing on steadying himself. He had been mortal before, and he had learned then to ignore the sensation of slowly dying each day. He knew he could do so again, but it would take some time and right now he had more pressing concerns.

“Beelzebub—Beelzebub would never—”

“Neither would Crowley,” Aziraphale said, eyes still closed. “And he wound up stabbed because of it.”

“You—you’re certain?” Lucifer asked.

Aziraphale nodded unsteadily and opened his eyes. “Absolutely.”

A truly conflicted expression settled onto Lucifer’s face.

Aziraphale drew a deep breath and knew what he had to do next. “I’m going to Eden,” he announced. “I need to get to Crowley.”

Lucifer’s mouth twisted. “That seems most prudent. I would accompany you, but someone needs to watch over Hell. And I am afraid I do not have another sword key.”

“I have one,” Aziraphale said, pressing his hands together to try and stop them from shaking.

Lucifer looked surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Aziraphale said, and took a step towards the doors, ready to start out for Eden immediately.

“Wait,” Lucifer said, taking a step after him. Aziraphale reluctantly stopped, turning back to the seraph and frowning at him. “You should be careful,” Lucifer said. “I think—I think perhaps—” He broke off.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Lucifer let out a breath and tugged at one of the sleeves of his doublet. “Beelzebub has served me loyally for millennia, but…”

Aziraphale waited for him to continue.

“If Borchat didn’t carry Crowley’s message to you, perhaps Beelzebub simply never gave it to him. When he came to me with a plan to retrieve Crowley—and I _am_ sorry about that—he insisted the two of us make a set of restraints to curb his power: a pair of handcuffs marked with our seals. I directed Beelzebub to place them in the treasury when he went to collect the sword key for Eden’s Northern Gate. They appear to have gone missing, and no one other than he and I have access to that room.” Lucifer switched to rubbing at one hand, looking uncomfortable. “With Hell in a state of disarray, it is possible he is plotting to overthrow me. There have been rumours…”

Aziraphale stared at him. “Is there any reason Beelzebub would want Crowley dead? Why would he destroy the Tree?”

Lucifer shrugged hopelessly. “He knows that speaking to Ishtyr is my only desire, and that the Tree is the only way for me to do it. Perhaps he plans to break me.”

Aziraphale would have offered a word of consolation, except that he felt a fresh flare of pain from Crowley just then and knew that he didn’t have any time to waste. “What’s the fastest way to Eden from here? Is there a shortcut through one of the circles?”

Lucifer motioned vaguely to his right. “There’s a hellgate by the plains of mud in the first circle; it lets out near Mosul, so it should be faster than flying cross-country on Earth.”

Aziraphale nodded and had taken several more steps towards the door to the throne room before remembering that he didn’t have his Edenic sword with him. He would have to make a pit stop at Midfarthing first. He mentally calculated the route in his head, and knew that it would add a great deal of time to his journey, time that he couldn’t afford to squander.

“What about Midfarthing? Where’s the closest gate?”

Lucifer thought for a moment. “That’d be the new one, I believe it opens up in Staffordshire.”

Staffordshire—that was only a few hours’ drive from Midfarthing. Perhaps he could phone Bert and ask him to meet him there with the sword. That way he wouldn’t have to fly all the way to Midfarthing and back to the hellgate. He had taken a few more steps towards the throne room’s door when he registered something else Lucifer had said.

“Wait—new? Why is it new?”

Lucifer gave him a puzzled look. “It’s the one Crowley made. When he left Hell. You can’t miss it.”

And then Aziraphale _did_ remember, remembered Crowley leading him by the hand out of Hell directly after he had been revealed to be a seraph. Crowley had been brimming with power he didn’t yet know how to control, and had accidentally obliterated everything in a quarter mile radius as he and Aziraphale had passed through the circles and back up to Earth. They had emerged in a rather harmless-looking field in rural England, which Aziraphale remembered now _had_ been in Staffordshire.

“And one more thing,” Lucifer said as Aziraphale turned to leave again. “If you see Beelzebub in Eden, don’t harm him. If he truly has betrayed me, I will kill him myself.”


	12. An Alliance of Necessity

“Crowley?” Beelzebub’s voice called, floating through the Edenic forest.

Crowley sucked in a breath and fell still, whole body throbbing, hand still clamped over the gash in his side. He turned his head to try to get a better idea of where Beelzebub was.

“Crowley?” the call came again. “Where are you? We want to help.”

 _Yeah, right,_ Crowley thought, pulling his legs closer and wincing. He eyed the forest in front of himself, wondering how far he could get before Beelzebub caught him. He could hear the other seraph moving through the undergrowth already, and knew that, if he could move at all, he wouldn’t get very far. Sitting here had allowed him to get his breath back, but he was still very lightheaded and thought that if he stood up he might faint. He considered shifting back into a snake and fleeing that way, but he knew Beelzebub would catch him eventually, by tracking his aura if nothing else.

“Crowley?” That was a different voice now, one that Crowley recognised with a shiver as Lucifer’s. How he had appeared in Eden was anyone’s guess—as was how Beelzebub had evidently survived being run through with the Metatron’s sword—but it was clear that Crowley had been duped. It was two seraphim against one now, and he didn’t stand much of a chance at all in his present condition.

The sound of rustling undergrowth grew even nearer, and Crowley gave up his last hopes of escape. He braced himself to be discovered, but the rustling stopped.

“Um, perhaps you shouldn’t touch anything,” Beelzebub’s voice said, followed by a sound of agreement from Lucifer.

Crowley drew a shallow breath, wincing as his fingers twitched against his injured side. He caught a whiff of the acrid smell of smoke, undoubtedly coming from the felled Tree that had once given Aziraphale new life.

Crowley looked down at his left hand, his right still wrapped around his side as he drew another shaky breath. He could feel Aziraphale’s panic and worry, sharp and immediate, and he pressed the knuckles of his left hand against his mouth, the smooth surface of his wedding ring cold against his lips. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to gain strength from the contact, reminding himself of what he had to go home to, of _who_ he had to go home to. All he had to do was make it out of here alive.

He lowered his hand and pushed his eyes open as he heard the crackling of the undergrowth grow louder, Beelzebub and Lucifer doubtlessly following the speckled trail of blood Crowley had inadvertently left behind him.

“Crowley?” That was Beelzebub again, voice tinged with something that Crowley might have mistaken for concern had he not known better.

He gritted his teeth and shut out the pain as best as he could as first Beelzebub and then Lucifer stumbled out from around a nearby tree. Beelzebub spotted Crowley immediately and headed towards him, Lucifer moving more cautiously behind him.

Crowley drew his knees up even further, digging his heels into the earth and entrenching himself, shoulders flat against the rough tree trunk behind him.

“Ssstay back,” Crowley hissed, miracling a dagger into his free hand. He knew it was far too short to do any damage unless Beelzebub was foolish enough to get within an arm’s reach, but he didn’t think he could hold something as heavy as a sword for very long.

As pathetic as his attempt at self-defence must have looked, it had the desired effect of convincing Beelzebub to come to a halt several paces away.

“There’s no need for that,” Beelzebub said, eyeing the dagger. “We just want to help.”

“My arse,” Crowley growled. “I heard what the Metatron said. You knew they were going to be here—you two were _working together_.”

A pained expression settled onto Beelzebub’s face. “I can explain.”

Lucifer finished carefully picking his way through the undergrowth and glanced up at Crowley as he approached. “Greetings, Crowley. I did not expect to be seeing you again so soon.”

Crowley looked from Lucifer back to Beelzebub, the dagger growing heavy in his hand. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Beelzebub glanced back at Lucifer, who was still looking rather foolish in a white robe that looked like it had been pilfered from the beginning of Creation.

“And I don’t know why you bloody well needed me to come along if he was going to follow us anyway,” Crowley continued bitterly, jerking the tip of the dagger at Lucifer. “Unless you _intended_ for the Metatron to skewer me, of course.”

Beelzebub and Lucifer just blinked at him for a moment.

“Oh,” Beelzebub said. “Sorry, you have him confused. I did the same thing, for a moment. This is Ishtyr.”

Lucifer inclined his head. “Admittedly there is not much resemblance to the form you’re familiar with.”

Crowley could only blink, wondering if he was more lightheaded than he thought. “What?”

“Death,” Beelzebub said, gesturing at Lucifer. “Ishtyr. Sorry, I know he looks like Lucifer but he’s not.”

Crowley was openly staring now, finally thinking to feel for their auras. Beelzebub’s was there, burning brightly even as he felt his own flag, but there was no trace of Lucifer’s. The Lucifer-shaped person beside Beelzebub had an aura of his own, but much smaller than a seraph’s and with a very different composition. “H—how?”

“Beelzebub took a fruit from the Tree of Life just before he came to me,” Lucifer—or, rather, Ishtyr—explained. “When a soul comes to me, they appear as their subconscious imagines them to be. The Metatron was a little too skilful with that sword—Beelzebub came to me in an instant.”

“Didn’t feel a thing,” Beelzebub interjected, almost cheerfully.

“His mind reconstructed him as he last remembered himself, and that included holding the peach,” Ishtyr continued. “And then we both took a bite. My body was destroyed long ago, but the Tree can provide a body if one is needed, since all living creatures must have bodies. This was the one I was provided.” Ishtyr looked down at himself. “It is how I last remember myself.”

“As…Lucifer?” Crowley really wasn’t following, and the pain in his side was beginning to return despite his best efforts to push it down. The dagger was growing very heavy in his hand, and since it didn’t look like either of them intended on killing him outright, he slowly lowered the weapon.

“It is my understanding that Lucifer is still in possession of my original corporation,” Ishtyr said. “We were sharing his when I was annihilated, and I gather that God granted him mine as a replacement. He has done an exceptional job of not being discorporated since.”

“Bloody hell,” Crowley said. Now that he was paying more attention, he noticed that Ishtyr didn’t _quite_ look like Lucifer—many of the hard lines of Lucifer’s face were smoothed out on Ishtyr’s, the dark circles under his eyes and severe frown lines absent. It took him a moment to realise that Ishtyr looked overall much younger.

“Lucifer is going to be very happy to see you,” Beelzebub told Ishtyr. “He really is. He’s the reason we were here in the first place, trying to get a peach so he could visit you like Crowley did. But now that you’re here, you can see him in person!”

“I look forward to it,” Ishtyr said. “But in the meantime, I recommend we focus on our egress from Eden.”

“Our what?” Beelzebub asked, at the same time as Crowley said, “Why?”

“While you were taking the fruit, Beelzebub,” Ishtyr said, “the Metatron picked up the sword you dropped. And if you look along the horizon, you will notice that none of Eden’s gates are currently open.”

Crowley and Beelzebub both looked up, and though Crowley couldn’t see anything anywhere near the horizon, the stretch of sky directly above them was a single dark, deep blue hue. Crowley hadn’t really been paying attention to the sky earlier, but since the gates extended for a considerable height when open, he supposed that Ishtyr meant that they would have been able to see a shift in the sky colour from Eden to Iran had a gate been open.

“You’re saying the bastard locked us in here?” Beelzebub asked, tone suddenly sharp.

“That appears to be the case,” Ishtyr replied calmly.

“What, not part of your _plan?”_ Crowley hissed, reminded of the wound in his side and who had put it there. “Did the Metatron turn on you?”

Beelzebub shifted on his feet.

“You sssaid you’d explain, ssso you’d better ssstart now.”

“Yeah,” Beelzebub said. “I—um—I made a deal with the Metatron, yes. But they just said they wanted a peach for themself. Trust me, if I’d have known they were going to cut the Tree down I never would have agreed to anything. And at the time I didn’t even know we’d need the Tree to talk to Ishtyr. I was just going to meet them here.”

“Sssurprisssed to be lied to? That’sss what you get for trusssting _the_ _Metatron_.”

“I didn’t _trust_ them,” Beelzebub retorted sharply, and then his tone darkened. “And I wouldn’t have _needed_ to make a deal with them if _you’d_ let anyone even vaguely demonic within a dozen metres of you!”

A wave of shivers passed through Crowley. “Are you sssaying—”

“You turned your back on your own kind, is what you did!” Beelzebub accused. “All I needed was five minutes, but you were too good for the rest of us, so I had to resort to dealing with _angels_ to get my hands on you!”

Crowley had gone very cold, breaths shallow. “You’re saying that _the Metatron_ kidnapped me?”

“They arranged for it, yes,” Beelzebub said flatly, folding his arms. “Since I couldn’t get to you with _demons_.”

“Hey, I didn’t let anyone talk to me because I knew they were working for _you_ , and I had no idea what you and Lucifer wanted! And exactly how many other _seraphim_ did you launder my unconscious body through before it reached you?”

“Crowley, Beelzebub,” Ishtyr said calmly. “You are not each other’s enemy.”

“He’s working with _the Metatron_ ,” Crowley accused, “who just _ssstabbed_ me, if that had slipped your notice.”

Beelzebub’s expression soured. “And they just _killed_ me, if _you_ hadn’t noticed.”

“I think it is safe to say that Beelzebub will not be working with the Metatron from this juncture onwards,” Ishtyr said placatingly. “Correct?”

Beelzebub folded his arms. “Obviously.”

“And we are in agreement that it is best that we work together to find a way out of Eden?”

Neither of them responded.

Ishtyr sighed. “It is said that death brings perspective, but I did not know how true it was. Crowley is clearly in need of medical attention, and he also has the only plan to get out of Eden.”

Beelzebub blinked in surprise. “He does?”

“Crowley has been here before,” Ishtyr reminded him. “To fetch a fruit from the Tree of Life for Aziraphale. How do you think he entered Eden then?”

Beelzebub frowned at Ishtyr. “How would I know?”

“And who’s to say I’d let him leave with me?” Crowley asked loudly, head pounding.

“Crowley, please think for a moment,” Ishtyr said. “Lucifer will be looking for Beelzebub, and there is no sense making enemies. I recall you being more sensible than this.”

Crowley transferred his scowl to Ishtyr, pain drumming against his skull as he felt more blood seep out of his side, hot and sticky. “He let the Metatron cut down the Tree,” Crowley protested. “That was the only thing keeping Aziraphale immortal.” He could feel his partner’s mortality in his chest, recognised the feeling from when they had briefly shared the same corporation while escaping Heaven. Crowley felt a prick at his eyes. “He’s mortal now, because of _him._ ” He glared at Beelzebub, who, again, looked surprised.

“He didn’t plan for any harm to come to the Tree,” Ishtyr said reasonably. “It is not his fault that the Metatron tricked him. And if Beelzebub had been only a second slower to reach the fruit, he would have paid for it with his life.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that about Aziraphale,” Beelzebub offered. “I truly meant no harm.”

Crowley sniffled.

“You said he’s mortal now? But—I ate from the Tree too, and _I_ am still immortal, I think—”

“He’s human,” Crowley said stiffly. “When he Fell, he Fell to human. Without the Tree, he’s…” Crowley couldn’t finish the thought, unable to even begin to think about what this could mean for his and Aziraphale’s future. He curled the fingers of his left hand together, feeling again the ring that Aziraphale had put there.

“Perhaps the Tree doesn’t need to be around for him to still be immortal,” Beelzebub said hopefully. “Maybe they’re independent.”

Crowley shook his head mutely, unwilling to explain the hollow feeling in his chest.

“They are connected,” Ishtyr confirmed. “Take my present condition for evidence.”

Beelzebub glanced over at him and nodded. Crowley busied himself with trying to hold back the tears he could feel building in his sinuses, telling himself sternly that this was no time to break down. It didn’t help any that every tremble of his chest pulled at his side, sending fresh tingles of pain through him.

“When I first returned to this world,” Ishtyr said, “I was still holding the fruit, and it was safe in my hand. Luckily, I dropped it, because once the Tree had fallen, that’s when…” He held up his hands.

Crowley sniffled, suddenly latching onto something Ishtyr had said. “Wait, the fruit—did any of the peaches survive?” He moved to stand but didn’t make it very far, falling back against the tree trunk even as he felt urgency flare through him. Beelzebub and Ishtyr looked at him in alarm.

“The—the Tree—” Crowley gasped, breath catching. “Did any of the peaches survive the fire? If one did, we could use the pit—plant it anew, in the same soil, and maybe—maybe it would grow another Tree of Life.” He looked back and forth between them, desperately looking for confirmation.

Beelzebub and Ishtyr exchanged a long glance.

“It may work,” Ishtyr admitted. “Edenic Trees do not operate by normal rules of biology.”

“There was a lot of fire,” Beelzebub said uncertainly. “And it was from a divine sword. I don’t know.”

“Someone—” Crowley tried to stand again and immediately regretted it. His vision exploded in grey static, and when his head cleared several moments later, ears still ringing, he felt Beelzebub’s hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down.

“I think you ought to stay still,” Beelzebub said, sounding concerned.

“We need—need to get to the Tree,” Crowley gasped, trembling.

“We should get you healed first.”

“The—I can still smell the smoke,” Crowley managed, his rapid breaths catching in his throat. “It—it’s still burning. Someone needs to look for a—a peach, _now._ ”

Beelzebub and Ishtyr exchanged another glance.

“He’s right,” Ishtyr said. “I suggest you go.”

Beelzebub looked back at Crowley and nodded, releasing Crowley’s shoulder and straightening up. “Okay. Make sure he doesn’t kill himself before I get back.”

“That is my job,” Ishtyr said mildly.

Beelzebub strode back the way he and Ishtyr had come. Crowley listened to him go, breathing heavily and praying that he was right.

“You need to put more pressure on that,” Ishtyr said when Beelzebub was gone.

It took Crowley a moment to realise what he meant, and then he grunted agreement and adjusted his grip on his side, but there was only so much he could do with the cloth and his hand. He took a moment to try to get a better sense of the wound, feeling around with his fingertips instead of pulling the cloth back. The gash seemed to be roughly horizontal, stretching all the way across his side, some six inches long and not substantially above his left hip. He suspected the wound was deepest near the centre, if the increasing nausea when he prodded that area was anything to go by.

“I don’t suppose you happen to have any experience sewing stitches?” Crowley asked, miracling a roll of bandages into his left hand and looking nervously from it to his side, wondering how best to proceed.

“I don’t think you want my help,” Ishtyr said calmly.

“No?” Crowley asked, trying to shrug out of his suit jacket and feeling his breath lock in his chest as he twisted his left arm and the movement pulled on the wound.

“You must not have noticed,” Ishtyr said. “Everything I touch dies.”

Crowley stopped, jacket halfway off his left arm, and looked up at Ishtyr. “Wh—what?”

Ishtyr reached down and plucked a very small fern from the ground. The brilliant green sprout wilted in his fingers, shrivelling and turning brown. Ishtyr dropped it sadly. “It seems I have not entirely left my old job behind.”

“That’s—that—” Crowley could think of no appropriate comment to make.

“It is most unfortunate,” Ishtyr agreed. “Especially since this is such a beautiful Garden. It only began after the Tree fell, though. As its destruction has caused Aziraphale to return to being human, so too have I returned to being Death. Both of us are much less fortunate without its gifts.”

“Cor blimey.”

“Indeed,” Ishtyr agreed. “So you’ll forgive me if I refrain from getting within a metre of you.”

“Understood,” Crowley said, returning to working his arm out of his suit jacket with as little movement as possible. He paused. “I appreciate it.”

He had just finished working his jacket off his left shoulder and was trying to figure out how to get it off his right arm when the undergrowth rustled again. Crowley quickly shoved the roll of bandages out of sight under his jacket. The dagger he’d miracled up earlier was still resting on the ground nearby, and he vanished it with a thought, supposing he wouldn't be needing it.

Beelzebub appeared a moment later, something encouragingly peach-coloured clutched in his hand.

“Did you find one?” Crowley asked, staring at the object and hardly daring to believe it.

“The fire was quite thorough,” Beelzebub said, “and it’s still burning away at the trunk, but, yes, I found one.”

Crowley let out a huge sigh of relief and sagged back against the tree. _Everything’s going to be okay,_ he thought giddily. _We’ll plant a new Tree, and Aziraphale will eat from that one, and everything will go back to the way it was. Oh, thank God._

“It’s the one we ate from,” Beelzebub continued, showing it to Ishtyr. “It had rolled away from all the others.”

“As long as it has a pit, it’ll work,” Crowley said, breathless and still barely able to believe their good fortune. “We should plant it as soon as possible. It’ll need Eden’s soil, so we can do it right now.”

Beelzebub glanced at Ishtyr, who nodded.

“I too would like to partake when it is grown, so the sooner it is planted the better.”

Beelzebub glanced around. “Anywhere in particular you had in mind?”

Ishtyr shrugged.

“If the Metatron has two of the keys to Eden, I suggest not putting it somewhere too obvious,” Crowley offered, breaths shallow. “In case they come back. Let’s plant it somewhere only the three of us know.”

“That seems prudent.”

“Works for me,” Beelzebub agreed. “Where were you thinking?”

Crowley shrugged and winced, feeling himself break out in a cold sweat.

“I imagine Crowley would like to watch you plant it,” Ishtyr said, “and I would not recommend dragging him around Eden in his present condition.”

Beelzebub glanced between the two of them. “Here, then?”

Crowley nodded gratefully. “Sure.” They weren’t quite as far into the Garden proper as Crowley would have liked, still relatively close to the clearing with the smouldering remains of the original Tree, but there was plenty of cover between here and there, and Ishtyr was right about him not being in any condition to travel.

Beelzebub took a few paces around the surrounding area, poking among the bushes and trees until he found a relatively flat area half a dozen metres away, where there was enough of a break in the trees to potentially accommodate another.

“How about here?”

“I want to see,” Crowley complained.

Beelzebub sighed as he walked back over, the peach still in his hand. “Don’t trust me to put a seed in the ground?”

Crowley frowned at him. “Not this seed, I don’t.”

Beelzebub ground to a halt in front of him. “Then you’re going to have to let me heal you. You look like you’d collapse if you stood up.”

Crowley glared irritably at Beelzebub. He strongly suspected that the other seraph was right, but that didn’t mean he had to say it. “I’ll be fine.”

“He needs sutures,” Ishtyr announced without invitation. “Quite badly.”

Crowley shifted his irritated gaze to Ishtyr.

“Um,” Beelzebub said. “I was thinking magical healing?”

“Like that wasn’t the first thing I tried,” Crowley snapped. “It didn’t work.”

“Powerful divine or diabolical blades can inflict wounds that are immune to healing by angels or demons,” Ishtyr offered.

Crowley moved his gaze back to Beelzebub, as though he was affronted Beelzebub hadn’t already known that.

Beelzebub, much to his credit, didn’t seem deterred by this, instead setting the peach down in the crook of a nearby tree branch and rolling up his sleeves. “Sutures, then. Fine. I can do that.” He started towards Crowley.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Crowley said, clamping his hand more securely over his side.

Beelzebub frowned down at him. “Ishtyr _just_ said—”

“Not you. No offense, but I’ve been stabbed enough today.”

Beelzebub continued to frown at him, but fortunately he didn’t take Crowley’s words personally. “Ishtyr would kill you as soon as he touched you, and I don’t see a lot of other options.”

Crowley drew a trembling breath, knowing Beelzebub was right but wishing he wasn’t. If he was honest with himself, what he really wanted was for Aziraphale to do it, but that simply wasn’t an option.

“I’ll do it myself,” Crowley said shortly.

“That may not be wise,” Ishtyr said at the same time as Beelzebub rolled his eyes.

Crowley conjured a length of nylon thread into his hand, as though to prove his determination. He miracled up a curved needle next, and magically threaded it. Then he looked down at his side, the needle in his left hand, his right soaked with blood. His heart jumped into his throat and stayed there.

“I can do it, you know,” Beelzebub said.

“I’ve got it,” Crowley insisted, shoving himself into more of a sitting position and struggling to suppress the round of shivers that passed through him. He transferred the needle to his right hand and pressed his left to his side as he shook his suit jacket the rest of the way off of his right arm. Then he shifted onto his right hip and took a shallow, fortifying breath.

Crowley lifted his left hand slightly, gritted his teeth, and started pulling the side of his shirt up. It stuck in a few places, tugging at the edges of the wound as it tore free. A wave of nausea slammed into him, accompanied by a sudden lightheadedness as he felt more than saw fresh blood ooze out of the wound, dripping towards the waistband of his trousers.

As his vision cleared, he saw that the gash was about as he had imagined it in terms of size and placement, though actually seeing it was something else entirely. Underneath the blood, his skin was swollen and red around the long slice, and the centre of the wound gaped open slightly, revealing just the slightest glimpse of something dark red and glistening.

Crowley’s nausea increased, breaths coming so fast and short that he felt like he was drowning. Every instinct he had screamed at him to put his hand back over his side, but instead he reached around with his other hand and placed the tip of the needle against the edge of the inflamed skin.

Pain blazed along Crowley’s every nerve, his vision blurring slightly as his hand shook, the needle trembling in his fingers. He tried to take a deeper breath to steady himself, but it caught halfway down his throat. The tip of the needle wavered against his side, just threatening to prick his skin. He was very aware of both Beelzebub and Ishtyr watching him closely.

“F—f—fine,” Crowley hissed, and threw the needle at Beelzebub, his hand still shaking. “You d—do it, then.”

“Finally,” Beelzebub said, putting his hand on Crowley’s shoulder and starting to push him downwards. “Get on your back, first things first, before you knock yourself out completely.”

Any objection Crowley might have had was stifled when Beelzebub half-pushed, half-dragged him away from the tree, pain exploding up Crowley’s side at the abruptness of the motion. He moaned before he could stop himself, vision clouding over completely and ears ringing as he instinctively tried to curl up, something restraining him.

He was gasping for breath when his vision cleared some time later, and he dimly registered that Beelzebub was pinning him to the forest floor with a hand on his chest, the other on one of his thighs.

“Stop moving, you idiot,” Beelzebub hissed, and only then did Crowley realise that he was fighting Beelzebub, legs trying to curl up in a protest of the exposed state of his side.

Crowley forced himself to go slack, biting back another moan as a fresh wave of pain rolled over him. “Sss—sss—sssssorry,” he gasped, voice sounding faint even to his own ears as he felt Beelzebub unbutton and peel back the lower half of his shirt, the fabric heavy with blood and sticking to his skin.

“Try breathing more evenly,” Ishtyr’s voice suggested from somewhere outside of Crowley’s tunnel vision.

“’Caussse that’sss ssso—ssso bloody—easssy,” Crowley hissed back, breath hitching as he felt Beelzebub’s hand on his bare skin, over his ribs. He felt so exposed, there flat on his back in the grass, Beelzebub’s aura heavy over his own and the faint breeze cooling the sweat on his stomach. He wished desperately that Aziraphale were there with him.

“Try not to move,” Beelzebub advised, and then Crowley felt something plunge into his side.

Crowley lurched into motion before he could stop himself, leg kicking out at some unseen attacker and a pained, guttural sound escaping his lips.

“ _Don’t_ move, I said,” Beelzebub’s voice said crossly, and he plunged the needle deeper. Crowley groaned weakly and dug his heels into the ground, clenching the grass on either side of himself with his fingers to try to keep himself still. There was another excruciating tug at his side, and then a moment of relief that seemed so wonderful even though he was still blazing with pain that he collapsed back against the ground, panting for air.

“Wh—why are you h—helping me?” Crowley stammered as he sucked in as deep of breaths as he dared.

He felt a faint tug at his side, accompanied by the sound of a scissors snipping something. “Because Lucifer and I made a deal with you, and he will not appreciate it if I return with your corpse.”

“O—oh,” Crowley said, bracing himself for the next entrance of the needle. “Cool.”

It struck just as deep as the first, and Crowley shook again, battling his instinctive response to pull away, each twitch of the needle wrenching pained gasps from him. To Crowley’s immense relief, Beelzebub seemed to know what he was doing, and didn’t dawdle. He finished with the second suture just as quickly as he had the first, leaving Crowley panting for air but at least still conscious.

“What is perhaps the most ironic,” Ishtyr’s voice commented, “is that if you had simply died right away, I could have fixed this up for you before sending you back.”

Crowley made a humourless noise.

“Unfortunately, now that the Tree is no more, I cannot recommend it.”

“Great,” Crowley ground out.

The third stitch didn’t go as smoothly, the needle catching on something and resisting Beelzebub’s repeated attempts to pull it all the way through. Crowley was shaking quite badly by the time he had finished, sweat clinging to his skin and knuckles white from clutching the ground. As Beelzebub tied the threads, Crowley felt numbly for his wedding ring, pressing his thumb against its smooth surface and trying to send some form of reassurance to Aziraphale. As far as he could tell, his partner was oscillating between panic, frustration, and terror, but Crowley’s own pain was washing most of Aziraphale’s emotions out.

“Sorry about that one,” Beelzebub said as he finished with the knot and readied the needle for the next stitch.

There were nine in total by the time Beelzebub said he was done, far too few for a wound of this length but evidently the most Beelzebub felt comfortable doing with his oversized sutures. Crowley was far too relieved that it was over to complain about it at all, breaths hitching but much calmer than they had been before. He was exhausted to his core, but he pushed the desire to rest aside, instead easing himself into the closest thing to a sitting position he could manage, his head ringing.

“We need to…plant that peach pit.”

Beelzebub exchanged a glance with Ishtyr. “Not a word of thanks.”

Crowley made a show of grimacing and gingerly touching the skin around his side. “Th—thank you.”

“There are bandages by the tree,” Ishtyr said, and Beelzebub retrieved them.

Crowley would have rather put them on himself, but Beelzebub glared at him until Crowley reluctantly agreed they could do it together, Beelzebub handing the roll to Crowley to pass around himself and back to Beelzebub. When the bandage was nice and tight, the stretched fabric feeling reassuringly strong and dry against Crowley’s bloodied and sweat-slicked skin, Beelzebub tied the ends and let Crowley tuck them in.

“There,” Beelzebub said, standing and miracling the blood off his hands so he could dust them together. “Now you at least won’t keel over before we get out of here. Lucifer would not be pleased if I got you killed.”

“Great,” Crowley said, using a nearby tree to help pull himself to his feet. His vision swam alarmingly, and he just leaned against its trunk for a moment, dragging in breaths as his head spun.

“What _is_ your plan for getting out of here?” Beelzebub asked.

Crowley closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. “Peach pit first.”

He could practically hear Beelzebub rolling his eyes. “Right.”

When Crowley opened his eyes a few moments later, head still swimming but vision clearer, Beelzebub had retrieved the peach and was making for the spot they had chosen.

Crowley hobbled over to where his suit jacket was lying on the ground and miracled it into his hand, unwilling to bend his midsection any more than he had to. Already he was growing lightheaded from standing, and he hastily staggered towards Beelzebub while he still could.

He just barely made it, sinking to his knees an acceptable distance away. He sucked in deep, stuttering breaths and shivered as he felt the weakness in him, all over.

“Blood loss,” Ishtyr advised as he came to a halt not far away, looking down at Crowley. “I recommend standing as little as possible.”

Crowley opened his mouth to ask why Ishtyr knew so much about this sort of thing, considered the source, and shut his mouth again. Instead, he raised a hand to his forehead, which was throbbing.

By the time his head had cleared, Beelzebub had hollowed out a sizeable hole in the earth, stray bits of undergrowth conveniently relocating themselves elsewhere. Beelzebub dug his fingers into the peach next, tearing through the soft skin until he was able to work the pit free.

“Peach pit,” Beelzebub said, holding up the sticky brown pellet. “Earth.” He placed the peach pit in the hole and pushed the heap of soil back over it with his hand. He packed it down into a slight mound and looked up at Crowley. “Satisfied?”

Crowley blinked and the area grew slightly moist, as though after a recent light rain. “Yes.”

Beelzebub sat back and regarded him, miracling away the remains of the peach with a short wave of his hand. “Now, what’s your grand plan to get us out of here?”

“It’s not a…a _plan_ so much as a strategy,” Crowley said, pressing his hand gingerly against his side and feeling the unevenness of his skin under the bandage.

“And what is that?”

Crowley grimaced as the pain dug deeper. “We wait.”

Beelzebub frowned at him. “And how is that supposed to help?”

“Aziraphale has the sword that opens the Eastern Gate,” Crowley supplied. “He’ll be looking for me. He knows where I am, and that I’m hurt. He’ll be here in a matter of hours.”

Beelzebub blinked at him. “How does he know you’re hurt?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley said, turning his head until he found east, looking across Eden towards the gate. “But we should get to the Eastern Gate and wait for him. That way he won’t have to waste time searching Eden for us.”

“Perhaps you should stay here,” Ishtyr suggested. “Aggravating your wound isn’t wise. Beelzebub can wait by the Eastern Gate and bring Aziraphale to you when he arrives.”

“Oh, I’m going to the Eastern Gate,” Crowley announced, starting to push himself to his feet, “with or without your help.”

“Calm down, Crowley,” Beelzebub said, motioning sharply for him to sit back down. “We can get you there if you’re going to be such an idiot about it.”

Crowley sank gratefully back to the ground, head ringing.

“But we should double-check that the other gates are closed first,” Beelzebub continued. “Or see if there’s anything else in this Garden that might help us. Before we start just sitting around.”

Crowley had to admit that that wasn’t a bad idea, so he bit back a criticism. It would take Aziraphale a while to get here, so taking stock of their situation in the meantime couldn’t hurt.

“I’ll also try to find the easiest path from here to the Eastern Gate,” Beelzebub said, “so Crowley here doesn’t kill himself tripping over roots.”

Crowley grumbled something.

“Any objections?” Beelzebub asked, standing and looking from Crowley to Ishtyr.

“I will wait here with Crowley,” Ishtyr volunteered. “I do not wish to destroy more of Eden than absolutely necessary.”

Beelzebub nodded and glanced around them, evidently deciding which way to go first. “I’ll try to be back by nightfall. Don’t wander off.”

“Of course,” Ishtyr said.

Beelzebub nodded again, readied himself, and started off into the forest.

 

~~***~~

 

Eden, as far as Beelzebub was concerned, was beautiful in every possible regard.

He passed elegant, winding trees that stretched up into the canopy, trunks twirling like dancers. Others reached craggy branches towards him, delicate pink blossoms bursting from their tips. Bushes, ferns, mosses, and flowers of all descriptions blanketed the ground, and everywhere he looked seemed to be teeming with life.

Birds trilled their songs from tree branches, bees buzzed industriously around a patch of honeysuckle, and a rabbit hopped straight past him, utterly unafraid. He thought he saw a deer moving through the trees somewhere ahead of him at one point, antlers backlit as the sun began to sink closer to the horizon, dusk descending rapidly.

Beelzebub had spent most of the last six millennia in Hell, and though he did not fear the place as most of its denizens did, it couldn’t be denied that it wasn’t a very pleasant place. He and Lucifer had kept it that way, ruling harshly and inflicting punishment on anyone who stepped out of line, carrying out their vendetta against a Father who simply didn’t care.

Long ago, God had done Lucifer a great wrong, and when Beelzebub had joined his cause, moved by his story and determined to help, he had sworn Lucifer eternal fealty. He had never once regretted making that vow, but he didn’t think he had quite understood at the time all that he would be giving up when he Fell, all of this beauty and peace. Hell was his home, but leaving it for a place like this really wouldn’t be so bad. There was much talk of Redemption in Hell these days, and, against his better judgment, Beelzebub had quietly entertained the notion that perhaps someday even he and Lucifer would be Redeemed. It was a fanciful notion, but it held such appeal that Beelzebub found himself unable to shake it. To think—that perhaps one day he and Lucifer would be Redeemed and enjoying life in a Heaven every inch as beautiful as this, no longer throwing all of their efforts into simply destroying another’s Creation. Perhaps there was more to their story than eternal bitterness, a hopeful end for even the worst of sinners.

Beelzebub strode pensively through the forest, turning over this unlikely prospect in his head as he made for the Southern Gate.

And then, quite by accident, he stepped out into a clearing and came face-to-face with a Tree. It wasn’t the Tree of Life; this one was still standing, for one thing, trunk tall and proud and branches unharmed, and no magical warding ringed its base. For another thing, the fruits hanging heavy from its boughs were apples.

Beelzebub ground to a halt and automatically glanced around the clearing before approaching curiously. He had heard about the Fall of Man, and about how Crowley had orchestrated it, but he had somehow never quite imagined the Tree looking this way. Never quite imagined that _this_ place, so pure and beautiful, could have been the stage for one of the worst sins in history.

Beelzebub came to a stop a pace or so away, looking up at the branches of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. He wondered absently what knowledge exactly the Tree imparted, that learning it was enough to Fall Adam and Eve.

Then it occurred to him that he could find out.

Beelzebub continued looking up into the Tree’s branches, and suddenly wondered if knowledge such as this could help him be Redeemed. For a moment, it seemed a completely absurd notion, but as the thought settled into his head Beelzebub had to admit that it held some promise.

He reached up and carefully pulled a fruit from the Tree’s branches, a perfectly ripe apple with the faintest flush of magenta across its brilliant red skin.

Beelzebub considered it for a moment more, and then he stowed the apple away in one of the deep pockets of his black cassock and continued towards the Southern Gate.


	13. The Rescuers

The Metatron turned the feather over in their fingers, the black vanes standing out starkly against the pale skin of their current corporation, hands resting on the edge of their mahogany desk.

They had plucked the feather from their own wing only a few hours ago, when they had locked the last of the gates around Eden and spread their wings in preparation for their return to Heaven. It was lucky they had noticed it then, because they had been able to cast a cloaking spell over their wings before leaving Earth.

The Metatron had thought on this frustrating and unexpected turn of events as they had returned to Heaven, and had decided that God had made some sort of mistake.

“I speak for God,” the Metatron reminded themself in a low growl, the light from a nearby oil lamp resting on the surface of their desk playing across the black vanes. They were certain they were still doing God’s work, because there was no feasible way they could not be, but something in their method must be wrong. Perhaps killing Beelzebub had been a step too far, but he had clearly somehow survived, so the Metatron hardly thought they should be held accountable for it.

And then, in their moment of triumph, _Lucifer_ himself had appeared out of thin air, forcing the Metatron to cut short their plan and flee before Lucifer and Beelzebub banded together against them. One seraph they were certain they could have dealt with—and, indeed, they had taken care of both Beelzebub and Crowley without much trouble—but two seraphim with their wits about them was another story. The fact that Lucifer had evidently teleported out of thin air was extremely distressing to the Metatron, and they knew this was a sign of further dark magic, just more evidence of how the Fallen had turned against God and sought to bring down His kingdom.

That Crowley was conspiring with them was patently obvious; the Metatron had inspected the sigil around the Tree of Life themself, and it had been just as they and the archangels had left it millennia ago. No lone angel, not even a seraph, could have crossed into it to retrieve a peach and escaped with their life. The Metatron was certain that the Tree of Life had been responsible for allowing Aziraphale to return to Earth in the first place, and the fact that the sigil had remained untouched meant that Crowley must have had the help of another seraph in retrieving a fruit. With Cassiel, Sandelaphon, and Mephistopheles still firmly out of the picture—and the Metatron was certain they would have known if one of them had returned—that meant that the seraph who had helped him must have been demonic in nature, namely Lucifer or Beelzebub. So Crowley had been in league with Hell as early as six years ago, and then, more recently, after the Metatron had delivered him injured and in chains to Beelzebub, he had turned up in Eden hale and unbound.

They were working together to plot the downfall of Heaven, and the Metatron wasn’t about to stand by and watch Heaven crumble.

“I will do whatever it takes,” the Metatron said quietly to themself, voice harsh as they wrapped their palm around the feather, crushing the damningly black vanes, “to keep Heaven from that filth.”

The Metatron was not a fool. They knew that they were Falling, and that no angel had remained in Heaven after the last of their feathers had turned black. The process had only begun, however, and though the small feathers near the bases of the Metatron’s three sets of wings had all turned black, the infection had yet to spread.

It might be inevitable, but the Metatron did not intend on spending the rest of eternity as a demon. They would save Heaven, if it was the last thing they did—and they would do their utmost to make it the last thing they did. It was better to die as an angel in the service of Heaven than to live as one of those _sewer rats_ their Father had rejected without a second thought.

The Metatron ran over their plan in their head again, the plan to destroy all hopes of Redemption in Hell by destroying that which had given them hope in the first place. It was a good plan, but perhaps there was room at the end for his own finale.

In the Metatron’s hand, the black feather trembled, its tip quivering as a tendril of smoke rose from it, and crumbled to ash.

 

~~***~~

 

“Father always says we need to do the right thing and help people!” Thomas Young declared, putting his hands on his hips and looking over at where his younger sister was sitting on a nearby tombstone, swinging her legs back and forth. “Even if it’s hard or breaks the rules!”

“And what makes you think Grandad needs help?” Annabelle asked, tilting her head at him, one of her braids falling over her shoulder.

“I just _know_ ,” Thomas said. “And it’ll be an adventure! I’ve always wanted to go on an adventure!”

“Mum said to stay here.”

“Mum’s _boring_.”

Annabelle frowned at her brother, bottom lip jutting out slightly. “What _kind_ of adventure?”

Thomas’s eyes lit up. “One with—with—swashbuckling pirates!” he cried, drawing an invisible sword and jabbing at an equally invisible foe. “And space aliens and Captain America!”

“Aliens aren’t real, Thomas,” Annabelle said primly. “Don’t you know that?”

“Dad says they might be.”

That silenced Annabelle, who resumed swinging her legs, heels knocking against the face of the tombstone.

“Come _on_ , Annabelle,” Thomas urged, grabbing his younger sister by the arm and tugging her off the tombstone. “I don’t want to stay here. I want to go help Dad and Grandad.”

“You don’t even know where they went!” Annabelle protested. “And _you’d_ get us both _lost_.”

“I’m sure we can catch them up,” Thomas said brightly.

Annabelle pulled her arm free and crossed her arms, raising her chin importantly. “Then you can go by yourself, and I’m telling Mum.”

“No, no, no, no,” Thomas said quickly, grabbing his sister’s arm again and keeping her from fleeing back towards where Beth was adjusting her chair underneath the pear tree. “Come with, it’ll be fun. I don’t wanna go alone.”

Annabelle smirked at him. “Too scared?”

“No,” Thomas said quickly. “I just need a sidekick is all. Every hero has a sidekick.”

“I don’t wanna be a _sidekick_ ,” Annabelle protested, screwing up her nose in distaste. “Sidekicks are stupid.”

“Even Captain America has a sidekick,” Thomas tried. “Falcon. He’s not stupid; he can fly!”

Annabelle considered this. “That’s true.”

“You can be Falcon,” Thomas said brightly. “And I’ll be Captain America, and we’ll go on an adventure together and save the world!”

Annabelle thought this over. “If I go, will you give me the chocolate bar you got in Brighton?”

Thomas’s expression grew pained. “That’s not fair, that’s mine!”

“Then I won’t go on your adventure.”

Thomas screwed up his face. “ _Half_ my chocolate bar.”

“Done!” Annabelle flounced her skirt and started down the hill, in the general direction Thomas had been indicating.

“Hey, I’m the hero! Sidekicks _follow!”_

“I can fly, you have to walk,” Annabelle shot over her shoulder, and broke into a run.

“Hey, wait up!” Thomas shouted after her.

“Don’t run off, kids!” their mother’s voice called after them, only to be completely ignored by both.

Thomas’s lungs were bursting by the time he caught up to Annabelle, who had been following the verge of the road and all but collided with another boy.

“Who are you?” Annabelle asked as Thomas staggered to a halt next to her, all of his protective brotherly instincts kicking in at once.

“Don’t talk to strangers, Annabelle,” Thomas declared, shouldering his way importantly in front of his sister.

The other boy stared at them both, eyes wide. He was a few years younger than Thomas and looked particularly rumpled, traces of earth on his knees and arms.

Thomas frowned down at the boy. “Who are you, then?”

“Henry!” a female voice called from not far away. “Henry Ambrose!”

“Hi,” the boy—Henry—offered shyly.

“Do you live here?” Annabelle asked. “Do you want to go on an adventure?”

“Hey, it’s _our_ adventure,” Thomas protested.

Henry’s eyes lit up. “An adventure?”

“There will be pirates and superheroes,” Annabelle promised.

“You wouldn’t like it,” Thomas said importantly. “We’re looking for our Dad.”

“Henry!” the call came again.

“Can I come with?” Henry asked brightly.

“Sure!” Annabelle said. “I’m Annabelle, this is Thomas. Are there any good places around here?” She didn’t have to clarify what she meant.

“There’s a pond nearby,” Henry said. “There are some cool frogs.”

“Let’s go!”

Henry started off the roadside and into the undergrowth of a nearby cluster of trees. Annabelle followed enthusiastically, and Thomas started after them exasperatedly. “This isn’t the quest!” he complained loudly.

“Stop being a spoilsport,” Annabelle shot back as they moved deeper into the forest. It wasn’t long before they stumbled onto a small gravel path, trees behind them and a field before them.

“I don’t know if we’re supposed to be here,” Thomas said, but trailed uncertainly after the other two as Henry led the way down the path.

“It’s just up here,” Henry said brightly, breaking into a sprint.

Annabelle did too, quickly outstripping the younger boy and screeching her triumph.

“Annabelle!” Thomas shouted after her, reluctantly breaking into a sprint of his own.

By the time he’d caught up, Henry and Annabelle had skidded to a stop.

“Whoa,” Annabelle said.

Thomas slowed, opening his mouth to chastise them, and froze. In front of them, a small pier jutted out over a muddy pond. And there, hovering just off the end of the pier, sat a large, vertical, perfectly round white circle.

“Is that—” Thomas didn’t finish his thought.

“ _Brilliant_ ,” Annabelle said. “Magic!” She started along the pier, Henry following close behind.

As Thomas trailed uncertainly after them, he sensed something in the air, something indescribable that felt like _Dad_ to him in some thoroughly ineffable way. “I think Dad was here,” he said cautiously, stride strengthening.

“Is your dad a wizard?” Henry asked as he skipped closer to the portal, staring up at its white light. “Or a mad scientist?”

“Something like that,” Thomas said. They all drew to a stop halfway along the pier and for a moment they just stared at the portal hovering about a foot off the end of the pier. The edges rippled slightly, as though space itself was fraying.

“Beat you to the other side!” Annabelle shouted, and ran forwards.

Henry and Thomas broke into sprints as well, and, one after another, they leapt from the edge of the pier and through the portal.

 

~~***~~

 

“Henry! Henry Ambrose!” Mara Harper called, walking worriedly along the pavement and glancing into the forest every few metres. She was about to call again when she heard another voice, also raised.

“Thomas! Annabelle! What did I tell you about not wandering off?”

Mara quickened her pace, rounding the curve of the road and spotting the other woman. She was at the edge of the church cemetery, scouting along the forest’s edge and scowling.

“Hi there!” Mara called, and started up the hill towards her.

The other woman turned at her approach. Mara didn’t recognise her, and thought that she must have been from out of the area.

“Hi, sorry, I just heard you shouting. Are you looking for your kids?”

“Yeah,” the other woman said, a little guardedly.

“I’m looking for mine too,” Mara explained. “Little Henry, he’s nearly six. He ran ahead of me just a few minutes ago and then vanished; perhaps he ran into your kids?”

To Mara’s relief, the other woman seemed to understand. “Oh, that could be. Mine are little rascals, that’s for sure. There were over here when I last saw them, only five minutes ago; perhaps they headed that way, into the village.”

“Do you want to look for them together?”

The other woman glanced over her shoulder, towards the cemetery. It was empty apart from her, the wind breezing through the branches of a nearby pear tree and the sun glinting off what must have been her car, parked nearby.

“Okay,” she said, turning back around. “But let’s make it quick. I’m Beth, by the way.”

“Mara.” They shook hands.

They started back the way Mara had come, both peering into the forest and alternating calling their children’s names.

When they were only a little way into the village proper, they spotted old Faye Uphill tending to some petunias in her front garden.

“Ms Uphill,” Mara called, making a detour and stopping next to the garden fence. “Did you see Henry or some other kids run this way, just a moment ago?”

Faye Uphill twisted around and raised her hand in a wave. “Afraid not, Mara. Did you lose yours?”

“Just temporarily,” Mara assured her. “Thanks.”

She turned back to Beth. “They might not have come this way. Henry loves the forest, so they could have gone in there.”

“Is it very large?” Beth asked, glancing at her watch.

“Not really,” Mara said. “There’re fields to the north, but Henry knows not to go any farther than the pond—oh, there’s a pond, they might have gone there. He loves that place.”

“Let’s give it a quick look, then,” Beth said, and Mara started back the other way. “There’s nothing dangerous around here, is there?”

“Not especially,” Mara said, picking up the pace. “And everyone in the village knows us, so if they talk to anyone they should be okay.”

Beth made a noise of understanding.

“Are you visiting someone or just passing through?” Mara asked as she led the way down a narrow road.

“Visiting,” Beth said. “Gilbert, the vicar, is my father-in-law.” Strictly speaking, grandfather-in-law was more accurate, but they had settled on the more reasonable-appearing one generation gap.

“Oh, really?” Mara asked. “I didn’t realise he had children.”

They walked for a while longer and made their way onto a narrow gravel path, the pond just up ahead. “Is there somewhere you need to be?” Mara asked when she saw Beth checking her watch again.

“Oh, sort of. I’m supposed to be looking after something for Gilbert.”

Mara opened her mouth to inquire further, and that was when she rounded around a bend in the path and saw the pond and the large white disc hovering off the end of the pier. “What on—”

“Oh dear,” Beth said.

Mara took a few steps closer and ground to a halt. She turned to look back at Beth, who seemed a little distressed but not surprised. _“What is that?”_

“Um,” Beth said.

Mara looked back at the disc—she would have called it a portal, except that such things weren’t real—and this time she saw the faint tracks in the slightly muddy ground, evidence of three sets of small feet. “They were here,” she said, staring down at the footprints and then back up at the disc. She looked back at Beth, who’d taken a few steps closer.

“I think perhaps you should go home,” Beth said.

Mara stared at her. “My son just—I don’t even know—and you want me to _go home?”_

Beth looked distressed. “Okay, look, there’s a lot going on here and I really don’t think you want to know.”

“That’s not for you to say.” Mara crossed her arms.

Beth shifted on her feet. “Okay, well, first of all, that’s a portal to Heaven, and there’s an Edenic Tree in the church cemetery I’m supposed to be guarding.”

Mara took that in. _“What?”_

Beth’s mouth twisted. “Heaven, Hell, it’s all real, and it appears our children have wandered off to Heaven. I can take care of it, but someone really does need to look after that Tree and make sure no one eats from it.”

“Edenic,” Mara repeated. “You mean like…from Eden? Like, _the Garden of Eden?”_

“That’s the one,” Beth agreed.

“You’re crazy.”

“Portal,” Beth said, gesturing at the white disc. “Look, I’ll go after our kids, but I need you to go back to the cemetery and make sure no one gets to that Tree. The future of the universe might depend on it.”

Mara stared at the other woman. “No way.”

Beth looked indecisive. “Look, only one of us can go, and I know more of what to expect. Please go back and guard the Tree. It’s the pear one. And for the love of God _please_ don’t eat from it.”

“I am not guarding some—some— _Tree_ while you go off through some magical portal to—to—”

“Heaven,” Beth supplied.

Mara only gaped at her. “You can’t be serious. You just can’t. This is some sort of practical joke, isn’t it? Did James put you up to it?”

“It’s not a joke,” Beth said. “I swear. But someone needs to go back to the Tree.”

Mara folded her arms again. “Well, it’s not going to be me. If you’re going, then I am too.”

Beth opened her mouth to protest.

Mara held up a hand. “Look, you need someone to look after this tree, right? Someone who we can trust, and who will do as they’re told and who doesn’t have anything better to do with their time?”

Beth frowned at her. “Yes.”

Mara smiled. “Then I think I know just the man.”

 

~~***~~

 

“I think we’ve been here before,” Bert said, frowning at the row of shimmering, perfectly cone-shaped pine trees on the next hill over. “This looks familiar.”

“Nonsense,” Father Gilbert said, striding forward purposefully. “I’m certain the path to the second circle is just up here.” The Metatron’s office, Father Gilbert had explained, was located in the first circle, and since that was likely to be the best place to catch them by themself, they had been moving steadily through the circles of Heaven towards it.

“You’ve been saying that for the last hour,” Bert protested. When Father Gilbert glared at him over his shoulder, Bert added a quick, “Sir.”

Father Gilbert rolled his eyes and resumed trekking forward, the heavenly grass beneath their feet shot through with silver.

“Perhaps we could try following an actual road?” Bert suggested. “Like that brick one we keep running across?”

“If we stay to the thoroughfares we are certain to be spotted,” Father Gilbert said. “Stealth is the objective, remember. Even the smallest of disturbances may irrevocably damage the timeline.”

Bert made a noise of understanding. Ten minutes later, they were walking along the edge of an impeccably tended vineyard, grapes and leaves both perfectly formed, as though Michelangelo had sculpted them himself. They had walked past this same vineyard three times already, and Bert was beginning to feel like he was trapped in a particularly poorly-designed video game.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

“Of course I know where I’m going,” Father Gilbert snapped, beginning to cut through the vineyard and then abruptly changing direction to angle back the way they’d come. “I made all this, don’t forget.”

“I thought your omniscience—”

“It’s not omniscience, it’s memory,” Father Gilbert said huffily. “I made this place…and _all_ of the places. I just…I can’t be expected to remember this one in _particular_. There were an awful lot of places.”

Bert bit back a snicker.

“Oh, shut up.”

Father Gilbert had started cutting through the vineyard again, having evidently decided that that _was_ the right way, when Bert felt his mobile buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting it to be either Donnie or an unknown number doubtlessly representing a telemarketer, but instead it was Aziraphale.

Bert accepted the call and put his mobile to his ear. “Ziraphale? Are you all right?”

“Not exactly,” Aziraphale’s voice crackled into his ear. “Listen, I’m in a hurry, and I really need you to grab a sword and take it to Staffordshire for me.”

Bert opened his mouth but Aziraphale spoke over him.

“The sword’s in my cottage, in the back of the wardrobe in the upstairs bedroom. There’s a field in Staffordshire, it’s the one Crowley and I appeared in after we left Hell six years ago. It’s just south of a village called Middleton Green. Write that down. I’ll text you the coordinates. I’ll be there as soon as I can, and I need the sword ASAP. Crowley’s in danger, and it may save his life. Can you do that?”

“Er,” Bert said. “I’m a little tied up right now—” Father Gilbert had come to a stop and was staring at him.

There was a pause and then he heard Aziraphale’s voice again, growing louder, as though he was turning back to the phone. “Great, thank you so much.”

“Wait—Zirapha—”

Aziraphale hung up on him.

Bert stared down at his mobile.

Father Gilbert looked at him expectantly. “What did he say? What’s happening?”

“Er,” Bert said, mouth going dry. “He said Crowley’s in danger, and he needs me to bring him a sword…”

“What kind of sword?” Father Gilbert asked quickly.

“I—I dunno,” Bert said, staring at his mobile. “Hang on.” He tapped the contacts button on his phone and scrolled through them until he found the one he was looking for. He pressed call and put the phone to his ear.

Father Gilbert narrowed his eyes at him.

The phone rang once, and then its recipient picked up. “Bert, where have you been? I thought you were getting off work early? Dinner’s getting cold.” Donnie sounded distressed. “I’ve been phoning you for the past two hours!”

“Ah, hi, honey,” Bert said. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t get your earlier calls. I don’t think I have very good cell signal where I am. And I—I know it’s our anniversary, and I love you, and I’m really sorry I’m not there, but there’s something very important I need you to do.”


	14. The Streets of Heaven Are Too Crowded

Harper was beginning to discover that perhaps one of the most boring things to do with a Tree was guard it.

“‘Watch the tree,’ they said,” Harper mumbled, looking down at the metal folding chair already sitting directly underneath the pear tree in the church cemetery, giving the tombstone next to the trunk only a cursory glance. “‘Don’t let anyone touch the tree,’ they said.”

“‘And, most of all,’” Harper grumbled as he sat down on the chair, “‘don’t let anyone _eat from the tree.’”_

Harper tilted his head back, looking up at the harmless-looking branches spreading across the evening sky above him, leaves a rich green and perfectly symmetrical. “I’m guarding a bloody _pear tree_.”

He let out a long sigh and pulled his mobile from his pocket, opening the internet browser and beginning to flip through pastry recipes.

He expected he’d be there for some time.

 

~~***~~

 

“Jesus _Christ_ , you were not kidding.” Mara stared around herself in shock, beautiful rolling hills unfolding around them, a perfect, crystal blue sky above.

“Not sure what’s up with him, actually,” Beth said, taking a few paces away from the portal and beginning to scan their surroundings.

Mara joined her, looking for any traces of their children. “Which way do you think they went?”

Beth looked around herself pensively, turning her ears to the wind. “Where’s the most noise?”

They both listened intently, but neither could pick out anything more than the sound of leaves and blades of grass rustling together, and perhaps the occasional distant, unplaceable noise.

“I think I see a road over there,” Mara said at length, pointing off to their left. “That white line, just there. Perhaps we could ask if anyone’s seen them.”

Beth started off in the direction Mara had indicated, Mara keeping pace with her.

“Oh, and I suppose that’d be…angels?” Mara asked. “Are angels real?”

Beth snorted. “You’d better believe it; you’ve been living in the same village as two of them.”

Mara almost missed a step. “A—what?”

“Crowley,” Beth supplied. “He used to be a demon, and then sort of returned to being an angel. And Aziraphale _used_ to be an angel, but I hear he’s human these days.”

Mara could only stare at her. “How do you know all this?”

“Let’s just say I married into it.”

Mara processed that as they made for the road, admitting that this new revelation _did_ make quite a bit of sense. For as long as she could remember, Crowley had never aged a day, much to everyone’s jealousy. Aziraphale had, though…for a while, at least, but then, quite strangely and unexpectedly, he had become younger again…

They reached the road a few minutes later, a gently meandering white brick road that, if not for the colour, would have been straight out of _The Wizard of Oz_.

“Which way?” Mara asked nervously, looking up and down the road.

Beth shrugged.

“Haven’t you been here before?”

Beth shook her head. “Heard about it some, but never visited. It’s a bit boring-looking, isn’t it?”

Mara made a noise of agreement.

They randomly chose left and started down the road, the sunless sky seeming to radiate light from nowhere in particular.

“Where _are_ we?” Mara asked incredulously, staring up at the sky. “Like, physically? _Above_ the Earth? Next to it? Where’s the sun? Are there stars at night?”

“It’s a different plane,” Beth supplied. “That’s all I know. And I don’t think there _is_ a night, not here. Which is a bit of a shame, ’cause I could really turn in.”

Mara hummed her agreement, and they continued walking along the road. It wasn’t long before they spotted someone ahead of them. To Mara’s amazement, whoever it was had a pair of brilliant white wings folded on their back.

“Oh, they _do_ have wings!” Mara said in delight. “Do you reckon they’re friendly? Are angels like ‘spinning wheels of death’ or ‘friendly guardians,’ like from _It’s a Wonderful Life_?”

“I dunno,” Beth said, sounding a little ruffled. “You’ve spent more time with Crowley than I have.”

Mara frowned, considering this. Crowley admittedly didn’t have much in common with Clarence, but she’d also never seen him turn into anything that looked like a UFO, so that was something.

“Well, let’s go find out,” Beth said, speeding up their pace.

They reached the winged figure in under a minute.

“Hello, excuse me!” Beth called as they approached. The figure slowed, glanced over their shoulder, and stopped.

“Greetings,” the angel said. Mara gave him a once-over as they approached, but he didn’t look quite as impressive as she’d been hoping. He wasn’t half as radiant as his surroundings, for one thing, and actually looked rather ordinary. He _was_ wearing something that looked suspiciously like a cross between a toga and a bathrobe, though, and his wings were even more astonishing up close, each feather sparkling.

“We’re looking for three children who might have passed this way,” Beth said. “They would have probably been making quite a ruckus. Could you point us to anyone who could help us find them?”

The angel blinked and looked them both over. “You are human,” he said in surprise.

Beth nodded, and Mara folded her arms. “That’s right.”

The angel frowned at them. “Does Azrael know you’re here?”

“Who’s that?” Mara asked.

A slightly distressed look came over the angel’s face. “Azrael, the archangel in charge of looking after the humans here in Heaven—you know, I think perhaps I should take you to her.”

Mara glanced at Beth, who narrowed her eyes. “If someone were to find three human children running around unattended, would they be taken to this Azrael?”

The angel frowned. “They ought to be. To Azrael or Jophiel.”

Beth and Mara exchanged a look.

“Well, then, lead on,” Beth said.

“Take us to your leader,” Mara added. “The wonderful Wizard of Oz!”

 

~~***~~

 

Adam’s omniscience was by no means complete. Unlike Father Gilbert, who could see all possible futures at once, Adam had inherited a sort of Swiss cheese omniscience. He could dimly grasp the big picture, and his moments of true foresight were scattered and often incomplete enough to not be of much use. Luckily, he usually only perceived things of importance, events that caused the timeline to bend or diverge.

Currently, he was standing in a rather nice meadow in Heaven, filled with the conviction that _something_ tremendously important had or would occur here. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell which one it was.

It seemed an entirely unremarkable field, tucked away near the edge of the third circle. To one side, the meadow was bordered by a line of silver-barked trees, and on the other side ran a low stone wall that marked the edge of Heaven.

Adam had been tracking the Metatron as best he could, knowing that, if he found them, then Father Gilbert wouldn’t be far away. Or, in the case of something having happened to Father Gilbert, then perhaps Adam could head off the Metatron himself. One of the strongest impressions in his mind had led him here, to this field, but it was clear that, though perhaps the Metatron had been here or would be in the future, they were not here now.

Adam sighed and closed his eyes, searching for another impression.

 

~~***~~

 

To the untrained human eye, the field in Staffordshire that Donnie found herself in was just as unremarkable as the heavenly one Adam had stood in so recently.

It was possible Donnie would have taken more care if she had kept up with the local Staffordshire news, which had been sprinkled with unusual and disturbing stories regarding this particular field for the last six years, to the extent that it had been christened ‘the Devil’s Gate.’

The gate bit was remarkably on the nose, but the devil had never come anywhere near it. The sheep farmer who owned the field had repeatedly tried to sell it, unsettled by the appearances of winged wraiths and strange folk. Unfortunately, no one had been in the mood to buy what was apparently a haunted pasture, and it had been left uncultivated for the past three years.

And thus was Donnie forced to wade through knee-high grasses, weeds, and volunteer crops, wondering fiercely if it was because of untended fields like this one that there was a trade deficit in this country.

The wooden warning signs littering the approach to the field might have also dissuaded her, except that it was the middle of the night and Donnie was almost exclusively using her torch to make sure she didn’t trip over the uneven ground.

It was a little chilly, and she pulled her coat further around herself as best she could with the torch in one hand and the sword in the other.

“This had _better_ be important,” Donnie grumbled to herself as she waded a bit further into the field. Beneath her, just out of sight in a different plane completely, stretched the mouth of a yawning chasm that ran all the way down to the fifth circle of Hell, demons, humans, and the occasional angel flitting around industriously in the open-air space.

“‘Oh, what did you do for your anniversary?’ ‘Go to the theatre? How lovely! Have a nice homemade dinner? Sounds romantic.’ ‘Oh, what did _I_ do? Nothing special, just _trudged around by myself in someone else’s field with a sword in the middle of the bloody dark—_ ’”

A shape emerged from the darkness in front of Donnie and she jumped, only barely biting off a scream.

“Donnie?” asked a surprised voice.

“Sweet Lord in Heaven!” Donnie cried, heart racing far too quickly for her age, clinging to the sword and torch equally in her fear, the light from the torch playing over Aziraphale’s face.

“Sorry, I was expecting Bert,” Aziraphale said, glancing at his watch and holding out his hand. “Where is he?”

It took Donnie a moment to realise he was expecting her to give him the sword.

“B—busy, I guess,” Donnie said, still shaking a little from the shock. “What have you got yourself into, hiding around in fields in the middle of the night and scaring old ladies?”

“Sorry, I don’t have time to explain,” Aziraphale said, all but wrenching the sword from her grip when she started to hand it over. “Thanks for bringing this; I really would explain but I’ve lost too much time as it is. I have to go.” He sounded stressed.

“Not without giving me some answers, you don’t!” Donnie said, but before she’d even finished Aziraphale had simply disappeared. She blinked into the darkness, quickly panning the beam of her torch across the grass, but he had utterly vanished.

“Ziraphale?” she called, suddenly a bit frightened, taking a few steps forward. She could hear faint noises, like distant echoes from a well.

“Hello?” she asked, a bit timidly, and then she took another step and the darkness swallowed her whole.

 

~~***~~

 

Thomas Young had a nose for many things, and trouble was but one of them.

“Where are we going?” little Henry Ambrose asked as he trailed after Annabelle. “I’m tired. I wanna go home.”

“Grandad was here, I know it,” Thomas said, striding further across the brilliant green grass. He had been tired some time ago, but somehow his fatigue had simply vanished, as it sometimes did. He was a most unusual boy.

“Perhaps we should go back,” Annabelle said cautiously. “Mum will be worried about us.”

“We can’t give up,” Thomas rallied them. “We have a quest! Heroes never give up!”

“Can they take naps?” Henry asked.

“Oh, come on,” Thomas said, and paused in surprise as he crested a hill. Not far in front of them stood a fabulous building. It had tall pillars, arching spires, and a sizeable dome. More interestingly, it was made from several different colours of marble, each one glistening in the light.

 _“Cool!”_ Annabelle breathed as she too crested the hill.

“’S pretty,” Henry agreed.

Thomas turned to continue the rallying of his troops, but both of them appeared considerably more awake now, eyes bright. “Grandad was here, and we need to find him! We’ll search for clues!”

“Race you!” Annabelle said, and bolted down the hill.

“Not fair!” Henry shrieked, and started off after her. Thomas sprinted after them, making sure Henry, who was the smallest, didn’t trip.

Before long they were all heaving in deep breaths in the shadow of a tremendous vaulted ceiling. Huge pillars rose around them, and as they padded through an open set of massive bronze doors their reflections followed them in the polished green marble floor. All three children stared up in awe at the ceiling, which was spangled with gold and silver stars.

Thomas was the first to regain his senses, turning his head down and spying an extremely tall desk sitting underneath an arch on the far side of the vault. He could just make out someone sitting behind it.

Thomas padded over, his feet making faint noises on the marble floor as he approached curiously. Behind him, he could hear Annabelle and Henry laughing and squealing.

“Hello?” Thomas asked loudly as he approached the desk, the lip seeming an impossible height above him.

“Go away,” a dusty voice rumbled. “The library is closed.”

“We’re looking for someone,” Thomas tried, still staring up at the desk. “Can you help us?”

There was a faint rustle and then a loud creak. Thomas heard Annabelle and Henry fall silent as a shape emerged from over the top of the desk, leaning over the edge and looking down on the person who had dared to disturb him.

Sharp eyes narrowed at him, bony hands curling over the lip of the desk. “And who are you?”

“I’m Thomas Young,” Thomas said brightly, “and this is Annabelle and Henry.”

The librarian frowned at him, eyes roving to take in the other two children, who were staring at him nervously. “You are human?” The librarian leaned further over the desk and adjusted his glasses with one hand. “ _Living_ humans.”

“Well…yeah,” Thomas said, a little unnerved.

The librarian leaned back, disappearing from view behind the desk. There was a loud rustle, and then he appeared from around the side of the desk. Thomas’s eyes riveted themselves on two tawny wings folded behind the librarian’s back.

“You’re an angel,” Annabelle said, rather unnecessarily, no fear in her voice.

“Yes,” the librarian said, and lowered himself into a kneeling position. He grimaced as he did so, dust floating off of his wings. “My name is Harahel. Who are you looking for?”

Thomas plucked up his courage and stepped closer. “Our grandfather,” he said. “He was here, I know it.”

Harahel studied him. “What does your grandfather look like?”

“Old,” Thomas supplied. “Uh. Tall.”

“Was he wearing a clerical collar?” Harahel asked, moving one hand to the hollow of his neck. “A white square, right here?”

“Yeah!” Thomas agreed. “He always has one.”

Harahel nodded, eyes sweeping from Thomas to Annabelle and Henry, still standing a short distance away. He held his hand out and several squares of chocolate appeared in it, unwrapped and lacking any logo or machine impression, just smooth squares of milk chocolate.

“Here, have a chocolate. I’ve seen your grandfather, and I will help you find him.”

Thomas eyed the chocolate warily; Mum had warned him about taking food from strangers.

Annabelle bounded over, Henry following her. “Thanks!” she said brightly, and plucked a chocolate from Harahel’s hand.

“Don’t—” Thomas started, but she had already taken a bite.

“It’s perfectly fine,” Annabelle assured him, and took another bite. “He won’t hurt us.”

“No,” Harahel agreed, still offering the chocolate. His eyes were regarding Annabelle closely, and then they swept back to Thomas. “You two are brother and sister?”

“Yes,” Thomas agreed, watching as Henry approached gingerly. Harahel gave him a friendly smile and handed him a chocolate.

Harahel studied Henry for a moment. “But not him, no?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, eyeing the last chocolate in Harahel’s hand.

“Interesting,” Harahel said, holding the chocolate out to him. “You and your sister are quite unusual, you know that?”

“That’s what Mum always says,” Thomas agreed, and cautiously took the chocolate.

Harahel frowned at him. “Your grandfather—are you sure he is not your great-grandfather?”

Thomas shrugged and took a bite of the chocolate. It was quite good.

Harahel swept his eyes over them, Henry looking tired again and rubbing at one eye with his fist. “Would you like a quick nap?” he asked. “There is a book I should fetch that I think will help me find your grandfather, but it might take me a little while.”

Henry nodded enthusiastically, Annabelle a little more reservedly.

Harahel turned his head towards Thomas.

“Okay,” Thomas said. “But we _will_ look for him?”

“Absolutely,” Harahel promised. “But rest for a moment. I’ll wake you when we can leave.” He looked up, towards the expanse of Heaven visible behind them. “Here, come a bit further in.”

He led them past his desk and then hovered there for a moment, looking torn. Bookcases rose above them, taller than any Thomas had ever seen. It was very quiet.

“Here’s good,” Harahel said at last, producing an armful of blankets from nowhere. He started laying them out on the cold marble floor. “Please don’t wander off, and _please_ don’t touch anything.”

“Are you a wizard?” Henry asked sleepily as he gratefully crawled onto one of the blankets.

Harahel gave him a faint smile and produced three small pillows as well. “I’m an angel. It’s not quite the same.”

“Thank you,” Annabelle said, claiming a blanket as well.

“I’ll be back soon,” Harahel assured them, standing up and ruffling his wings slightly, causing more dust to float off of them. For the first time, he seemed to notice that he was shedding dust like a duck water, and he glanced back at his wings in surprise. “Dear me.”

Thomas settled onto the last blanket, feeling a bit tired again.

“Just remember, don’t touch anything,” Harahel stressed, gaze on Thomas, and then he edged away, sighed, and vanished behind a bookcase.

Thomas sat on his blanket for a while as Annabelle and Henry drifted off, determined to stand watch. The librarian fellow seemed friendly enough, but Thomas felt there was something he wasn’t telling them. After a few minutes, though, his exhaustion caught up with him, and he supposed it must be nighttime on Earth. He slowly allowed himself to stretch out into a horizontal position, and he was only staring at the base of the nearest bookcase for a few minutes before sleep took him.


	15. Hope in Darkness

“Do not be discouraged,” Golgoth said, putting a hand on Zephrades’s shoulder where the other demon was sitting moodily on an outcropping of rock, watching the movements of the angels and demons some way below them. Far above them, the patch of Heaven visible at the top of the cavernous shaft had darkened, night falling across the Earth.

Zephrades cast Golgoth half a glance as he joined him, and Golgoth saw that he had been turning over a small black feather in his hands, though he quickly miracled it away. It was likely one of his own, just as black as all the rest of his feathers, which hadn’t changed from the day four years ago when he had tried to kill Golgoth and had instead been offered a place at his side.

“Easy for you to say,” Zephrades said, tugging restlessly at his sleeve and casting Golgoth’s nearly-white wings an envious look.

“I’m sure we just haven’t found the right way for you yet,” Golgoth said reasonably, sitting down next to his friend.

“That’s what you said the last five times,” Zephrades said bitterly.

“And it’s true,” Golgoth said firmly. “Repentance, community service, meeting people—that is what Crowley the Redeemed told me, but there may be other ways.”

Zephrades made a noncommittal sound, conjuring a small rock into his hand and beginning to play with it, turning it over and over in his fingers.

“And the first feather is always the hardest,” Golgoth reminded him. “The first and last are special. You’ve seen how many follow me, and follow the advice Crowley gave me, and how few have begun to have their feathers change. But that doesn’t mean that they and many more are not on the road to Redemption.”

“But… _you_ ’ve been here,” Zephrades said, sounding discouraged. “With me. None of _them_ have been so close, but _their_ feathers have still turned.”

“ _Some_ of them have feathers that have turned,” Golgoth corrected. “Not all of them, by any stretch of the imagination. And, contrary to popular belief, proximity to me doesn’t actually make demons unFall.”

“Or it’s just me,” Zephrades said bitterly, and tossed the rock in his hand so that it clattered noisily down the slope before falling off the edge.

“No,” Golgoth said firmly. “I said that I would not rest until you were on your way to Redemption, and I meant that.”

“Well, it’s not working,” Zephrades said flatly.

“We must have just been looking at it wrong,” Golgoth said encouragingly. “You’ve been helping rescue the souls from their hells, so, tell me: what have you learned?”

Zephrades’s wings ruffled slightly. “What do you mean, what have I _learned?_ I learned there’s a bloody lot of hells in this place.”

“In seriousness,” Golgoth said, the chastisement in his voice mild. “How did you feel while you were helping them? Did you see anything in a different light?”

Zephrades frowned down the slope, looking at the distant figures but not moving his eyes between them. “They are all so frightened,” he said at last. “And they have cause to be. They have been tormented for centuries by the wickedness in their own minds.”

Golgoth nodded. “And how did that make you feel? Truly?”

Zephrades thought for another long moment, wings twitching slightly. “I pity them. That they cannot simply suffer on Earth, but had to suffer for eternity here too.”

“Many didn’t suffer on Earth,” Golgoth said mildly. “Their wickedness went unpunished in life, and so they suffer in the afterlife.”

“I hardly think the punishment fits the crime,” Zephrades shot back, perhaps a tad strongly, and Golgoth felt a burst of something almost like fatherly pride. “Even a lifetime of wickedness ought not be repaid with a millennia of torment, of torture. It proves nothing, and it changes even less.”

Golgoth nodded his understanding.

“And then there are those—those people who wouldn’t have been wicked, had not something forced their hand. Circumstance, or the cruelty of others, or—or…the encouragement of others.” Zephrades dipped his head, restless wings falling briefly still.

“What do you mean, ‘encouragement of others?’” Golgoth asked, noting Zephrades’s body language.

“I mean—” Zephrades hesitated for a long moment. “Me,” he said at last. “And demons like me. Sent to Earth to damn those humans who would have been Heavenbound otherwise.”

Golgoth nodded. He had suspected that this was the root of the problem, suspected it ever since Zephrades had collapsed at his feet.

“Just—myself alone…I have damned so many.” Zephrades stared sightlessly down the slope. “I thought I was doing good—actually, no, I didn’t. I knew it was wrong, but I—I sort of… _liked_ it?” Zephrades seemed to shrink a little, but Golgoth only kept his unwavering gaze on him.

“It was my first real assignment, and I wanted to do it well, and we were all—well, we were against God. So Lucifer said to damn the humans, and…that’s exactly what I did.” Zephrades had to take a long breath before he could continue. “And the worst part is that I was _good_ at it. Damn good.” Zephrades moved a hand to the bridge of his nose, and Golgoth realised with surprise that he was trying to stem off the tears he wasn’t able to shed.

“I—oh, I damned so many of them, Golgoth,” Zephrades continued, voice thick. “Thousands. I’m just—I’m so terrified I’ll meet one.”

Golgoth tilted his head at him. “Really? Why?”

Zephrades shot him a poisonous glance. “Why do you think? I’m the reason they’re here. And I probably wouldn’t even recognise them, that’s how many I’ve done in.”

He went back to glowering down the slope as Golgoth turned this over in his mind, an idea beginning to form.

“Do you remember the first one?” he asked after a moment.

Zephrades cast him a sharp glance. “What?”

“The first soul you damned,” Golgoth said. “Do you remember who it was?”

Zephrades frowned at him, wings rustling. “Yes.”

Golgoth sat back slightly, indicating that he was settling in. “Tell me about them.”

Zephrades’s frown deepened. “Why?”

“Just curious,” Golgoth said. “And it may help.”

Zephrades didn’t seem convinced but drew a deep breath nonetheless. He took another moment to compose himself, staring off into the middle distance and appearing to gaze straight back through the millennia.

“Her name was Cadriya,” Zephrades said at last. “She was from Sodom. She lived in one of those nice mudbrick houses with her family, and she had a neighbour, a Sumerian family from Uruk who had taken refuge in Canaan to avoid persecution by the Amorites.”

Golgoth nodded, his own mind drifting back in time. He hadn’t had any sort of direct hand in what had occurred at Sodom and Gomorrah, but the demon whose boots he had been in charge of polishing at the time had talked about it constantly with his comrades, tales of great wealth and the progress of humanity, and how it was ripe for exploitation.

“They were good neighbours. Cadriya was very kind, and had welcomed them into their new home even though they were foreigners. Hospitality was so important.” Zephrades took a moment before continuing, jet-black wings twitching uncomfortably. “I turned her against the Sumerian family. I told her that they were lazy and untrustworthy, and that that was why they had been forced to leave their home. I told her that this was an attack on her and her family and their way of life, and that one day her children would be ruled by foreigners if she allowed them to stay. I taught her that only one of them could survive, and that the Sumerian family had no real _rights_ , because they had imposed themselves uninvited on _their_ land, and that meant they could do whatever they wanted with them.”

Zephrades looked at his hands. “Cadriya took my words and told them to her husband and children and other neighbours, and they harassed the Sumerian family until they left, for fear of further persecution.” Zephrades took a deep breath, voice quavering. “And then, since it had worked so well, I did the same thing to another woman, and then a man, and then I tried my luck in Gomorrah—by the time I was done, there wasn’t an ounce of hospitality in either city. And then they all burned and came here together, because of me.”

There was a long silence, Golgoth trying to think of something to say.

“And that’s just the start,” Zephrades said wretchedly. “There’s so much more. So you see why I can never be Redeemed.”

Golgoth just looked at him for a long moment, Zephrades’s expression so hopeless as he gazed down at his hands, hands that had committed great atrocities. Then Golgoth stood.

Zephrades barely looked over at him, as though he had fully expected this, the moment when Golgoth gave him up as a lost cause and left him to suffer in Hell for eternity alongside those he had damned.

But Golgoth only held out his hand, the same hand he had offered four years before. “Come along.”

Zephrades’s eyes found his hand and roved up to his face, expression uncertain and very miserable.

“Come on,” Golgoth repeated, shaking his hand encouragingly. “I have an idea.”

Zephrades seemed unsure but took his hand nonetheless, and Golgoth helped him to his feet.

“What is it?” Zephrades asked uninterestedly as he pulled his hand from Golgoth’s.

“We’re going to find someone,” Golgoth said. “There are ledgers, you know, huge ledgers of every soul in Hell and where they’re held. I’ve seen them myself. Let’s go have a look.”

An evasive expression settled onto Zephrades’s face. “I’d rather not.”

“It’ll be fine,” Golgoth said reassuringly, beginning to lead the way away from the outcropping of rock. “Do you know what the best part of my job is, Zephrades?”

“…getting to go home?”

“No,” Golgoth said cheerfully, locating the nearest tunnel leading into the bowels of Hell and making a beeline for it. “It’s helping all of you. When you first pull a human soul from their hell, as you’ve seen for yourself, they’re scared. They’ve suffered, and that stays with them. Here in Hell, they have lived, as you said, in eternal torment.” Golgoth reached the mouth of the tunnel and turned, giving Zephrades a broad smile.

“But _we_ —you and I, Zephrades, and all the others—we pull them from that torment, and we give them _hope_. It is the best work in the world, giving hope to those in need of it.” Golgoth felt his smile grow, Zephrades still looking rather confused and guarded. “And soon _you_ will bring that hope to someone, not to someone you’ve never known, but to someone you know all too well.”

Zephrades seemed to suddenly realise where this was going, and his expression quickly veered to panic. “No, no, no—I can’t.”

“Oh, of course you can,” Golgoth said encouragingly, reaching for Zephrades’s arm. “Cadriya may have been damned by you, but that doesn’t mean she can’t be saved by you too. She’s been here for six millennia—don’t you think it’s about time she was saved?”

Zephrades shook his head, appearing distraught. “But she—she will hate me. I did this to her.”

“It doesn’t matter how she feels about you,” Golgoth told him. “What matters is that you’re going to save her anyway, because she _deserves_ to be saved.”

Zephrades deliberated for a long moment, looking torn. At last, he gave a very small, very nervous nod.

“Excellent,” Golgoth said, turning to lead the way into the darkened tunnel. “Now, follow me.”

 

~~***~~

 

“It’s just up here,” Crowley said, voice warbling, as he sagged uncomfortably against Beelzebub’s side, one arm wrapped around the seraph’s shoulders and the other pressed against the wound in his side. It had started bleeding again, but he didn’t think he’d torn any of the stitches; it seemed to be just oozing more than anything.

“Where?”

“By that rock,” Crowley directed, nodding forward into the darkness and regretting it when his head swam. “The gate’s by the rock.”

A few more strides and they were there, looking down at the same rock that Aziraphale had stood guard beside so many eons ago, its rugged surface bathed in moonlight.

“Just…let me sit down,” Crowley said breathlessly, and Beelzebub led him over to a nearby tree and helped him sink to the ground.

The movement jolted his side, but Crowley was just so grateful to be off his trembling legs that he didn’t even mind the spears of fresh pain that dug into his abdomen. “Th—thanksss,” he hissed, sinking back against the tree and resting the back of his head against its trunk. A cool breeze drifted past him, wicking the sweat from his skin.

“And now we wait,” Ishtyr said. He’d followed a few paces behind them as Crowley and Beelzebub had made their slow progress through Eden, inadvertently marking their path with a trail of footprint-shaped patches of dead grass.

“You’re sure about this?” Beelzebub asked as he stretched his shoulders, eyes on Crowley.

“Aziraphale will be here,” Crowley assured them, breaths tight in his chest but voice certain. “He’s probably on his way already.”

Beelzebub shifted on his feet, rubbing the shoulder he’d been supporting Crowley’s weight with and glancing around the darkened forest. It was just as enchanted at night as it had been during the day, moonlight shining between the slender trunks and dappling the leaves. A galaxy’s worth of stars lay stretched above them, so much brighter than they appeared in any modern metropolis, almost filling the cloudless sky and appearing like a blanket of diamonds.

“I’m going to scout around a little,” Beelzebub announced. “I’ll be back soon.”

He vanished into the forest, the darkness absorbing him.

Crowley turned his attention back to his side, adjusting his position under the tree and trying to draw an even breath. The pain had become such a constant that he hardly noticed it anymore, drumming against the inside of his skull and shortening his breaths. He’d also grown uncomfortably warm as they’d made their way through the darkening Eden towards the Eastern Gate, and the sensation remained with him, the cool night air doing little to alleviate his condition.

“You should sleep,” Ishtyr told him from where he was standing a safe distance away, half-wrapped in shadow. “You need to rest.”

Crowley scoffed, and it caught in his throat. “With Mr I’m-no-longer-working-with-the-Metatron around? No thank you.”

He could see Ishtyr frowning at him even through the darkness. “Beelzebub wishes you no harm.”

Crowley drew another breath, tight and dry. “And how do you know that? He’s a torturer in Hell, you know. Takes only the most stubborn cases.”

“That was before,” Ishtyr said levelly. “The hope of Redemption has left Hell much changed.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, perhaps a tad aggressively. “That’s something else. What was all that about a happy ending for the universe?”

“This was not part of the Plan, I assure you.”

Crowley let out a short breath, and it tore at his chest. “What, run out of funding?”

“This is a serious matter, Crowley,” Ishtyr said sharply. “The future has _changed_. Something terrible has happened. The Tree was never meant to be cut down, and you were not supposed to face more peril.”

“Great,” Crowley ground out, shuddering as a sudden flash of feverish warmth rushed over him. “God’s off-script; that makes me feel so much better.”

“I’m sure He’s doing His best to rectify the situation,” Ishtyr said tersely, but Crowley detected a note of genuine worry in his voice. The idea of _Death_ being worried was in itself worrying, and Crowley only let out a dismal groan.

“What are you two talking about?” Beelzebub asked, making Ishtyr jump slightly as he melted out of the shadows of the forest.

“Just my voice,” Ishtyr supplied. “Being able to speak normally again is quite exciting. I didn’t have vocal chords before, you understand.”

Beelzebub screwed up his face. “Sounds pleasant, I’m sure.” He eyed Ishtyr, who was still barefoot in his white robe. “Perhaps you could conjure yourself some shoes? Gloves, maybe, and something that covers more skin? That way you’d be less likely to accidentally kill something.”

“Try a tracksuit,” Crowley suggested. “Or a long coat.”

Ishtyr’s face lit up, the expression looking odd on Lucifer’s face. “Oh, yes!” He looked down at himself, patting his robe eagerly. “Long have I admired the humans’ changing tastes in clothing, but I was unable to form any garments while in the Void.” He waved one hand and abruptly his robe was gone, replaced by the single most hideous ’70s disco outfit Crowley had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on.

Ishtyr admired the bright orange, sequin-covered bell-bottom trousers for a moment and then miracled a faux leather cowboy jacket into one hand. He pulled it over his equally sequin-bedazzled shirt, the jacket’s many fringes bouncing back and forth with the movement. Crowley blinked at him in horror.

Beelzebub, who seemed to be largely of the same mind as Crowley, drifted closer to his fellow seraph.

“I was wondering,” Beelzebub said as Ishtyr replaced the sequin-studded orange top with a ruffled shirt torn straight out of the seventeenth century, “what if we both tried healing you together? Even though it was a divine sword, perhaps if we worked together we could make some progress.”

Crowley tore his gaze away from where Ishtyr was testing out a blue gingham bonnet and eyed Beelzebub nervously. While he had to grudgingly admit that Beelzebub had done nothing but help him since the Tree had fallen, the memory of who he had been before all this Redemption business had started was bright in his mind. Since Beelzebub had had no qualms with delivering him to Lucifer with significant injuries from his impact with the car, it seemed unlikely that he was helping him simply out of the goodness of his heart. But whatever Beelzebub’s motive—if he really was just honouring Crowley’s agreement with Lucifer, or if there was something else at work—he did presently seem to be helping him, and Crowley wasn’t in much of a position to be refusing help.

“Fine,” Crowley said, slightly distracted by the sight of Ishtyr trying on what looked like an extravagant feathered cloak before vanishing it back into the ether. Evidently he had been more taken with fashion’s one-hit wonders than the classics.

Beelzebub squatted down next to Crowley and put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley kept his own pressed against his side, channelling his powers into the effort of healing himself. He felt Beelzebub’s power join his a second later, pouring in at an incredible rate. Crowley instinctively pulled away, fearing an attack, but Beelzebub’s power only spiralled into Crowley’s injured side, trying to heal it as well. Crowley reluctantly allowed them to join forces, trying to collectively overpower whatever barrier prevented the wound from healing.

“It’s—it’s not working,” Crowley gasped after a moment, the effort only leaving him feeling lightheaded. He waited for Beelzebub’s power to retreat and his hand to leave his shoulder before allowing his own power to fade.

Beelzebub frowned at him. “Well, it was worth a try.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed reluctantly, breaking out in shivers.

Beelzebub sat back on the uneven ground, casting a glance at where Ishtyr had apparently settled on a rain jacket, a kilt, and a hat with an absurdly large feather, and was now busy trying on different types of gloves.

“About Aziraphale,” Beelzebub said slowly. “There’s something you should know.”

Crowley pressed his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness passed over him. “What?”

“I don’t know if he’s coming.”

Crowley opened his eyes and frowned at Beelzebub. “He is,” Crowley said. It was a fact.

“I don’t know if he knows where you are,” Beelzebub admitted. “Or how he would know you’re in need of rescuing.”

Crowley opened his mouth to tell Beelzebub that that was none of his business, but before he could speak the other seraph had pulled an unopened envelope from the pocket of his cassock. He held it out to Crowley.

Crowley recognised it as the letter he had written Aziraphale, the one explaining what had happened and where he was going. A flash of anger passed through him, and he snatched the envelope out of Beelzebub’s hand, his own fingers only trembling slightly. “What, you can’t even deliver a bloody letter?”

“I’m sorry,” Beelzebub offered. “I didn’t think the Metatron would cause us any serious trouble, and I didn’t want Aziraphale running into us until after I had retrieved a peach for Lucifer. I was going to send it after we returned.”

“Like that would have helped much,” Crowley hissed, stowing the letter impatiently in his own jacket pocket. His mind went to Aziraphale, and how worried and frantic he must have been—must _still_ be—having received no news from Crowley whatsoever.

 _I should have demanded to speak to Aziraphale in person_ , Crowley thought with a pang of guilt and anger. _Before I ever left to come here, I should have made sure he knew I was all right._

“We might be trapped here for a while,” Beelzebub said with a glance at Ishtyr, who’d stopped picking out clothes to listen in. “Lucifer will eventually send someone after us, but he doesn’t have another sword key—”

“Aziraphale will come,” Crowley interrupted. “Even without the letter. He’ll figure out where I am, and he’ll come for me.”

Beelzebub looked uncertain. “I’m not sure—”

“Have faith,” Ishtyr said.

Beelzebub glanced at Ishtyr again, but he didn’t elaborate. He looked back at Crowley next, but Crowley pointedly looked away.

Beelzebub sighed and stood up, brushing himself off. “Well, I guess we wait, then.” He took a few paces away, further into Eden and out of Crowley’s line of sight. Crowley heard him settling down somewhere behind him, the undergrowth crackling under his weight.

Ishtyr continued looking at Crowley. “You really ought to get some rest.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley said sullenly, fighting back another wave of tremors.

Ishtyr sighed and moved away, leaving Crowley shivering alone under the tree. When he had gone, Crowley let his eyes fall on the large rock a few paces in front of him, where the Eastern Gate stood. Beyond it, the darkness was muted, as though a pane of frosted glass sat between him and the Iranian landscape on the Earthly side of the gate.

After a long moment, Crowley looked down at his left hand, where his wedding band was sitting snugly on his ring finger. He glanced around himself, but both Ishtyr and Beelzebub had moved out of his line of sight. At least somewhat assured of his privacy, Crowley carefully lifted his right hand from where it was pressed against his bandaged side, wincing slightly at the release of pressure, and reached over and slipped his wedding ring free. He tilted it in his fingers until he could read the inscription on the inside, his serpentine eyes easily picking out the words _my dear_ even through the darkness. Crowley gazed down at them for a moment before slipping the ring back onto his finger where it belonged, more confident than ever that Aziraphale was on his way. All he had to do was wait for him to arrive.

Crowley sat there for a while longer, the night cooling even as Crowley stayed uncomfortably warm, skin prickling. The desire to sleep was very strong, and he could feel exhaustion pulling at every fibre of his being, but he honestly didn’t trust Beelzebub not to slit his throat in his sleep. Given what he had heard about Beelzebub over the last six millennia, he really wouldn’t put it past him. Ishtyr, on the other hand, Crowley believed was well-intentioned, but given that he was in the habit of killing everything he touched, Crowley didn’t want to grow too unaware of his surroundings.

So he dragged in breath after breath even though they grated like nettles in his lungs, and forced himself to stay awake as the pain from his side throbbed through him in rhythm to his elevated heartbeat.

The night wore on, Crowley alternating between gazing at the rock in front of him and the stars above, slowly turning on their shared axis. Crowley continued shivering, never quite able to catch his breath and feeling the burning in his side steadily mounting.

It took him some time to realise he must have a fever, alternating between hot and cold flashes and sweating as though he’d run a mile. He miracled himself a heavy blanket and pulled it up to his shoulders, letting out a small, involuntary noise as it elicited a fresh spike of pain from his side. He ground the back of his head against the tree trunk to try to steady himself, legs twitching uncomfortably with every fresh wave of pain and his arm still uselessly hugging his side.

He sent a faint message to Aziraphale to hurry, groping around blindly in the darkness of his soul for his angel. He thought he might have found him, feeling a brief sensation of reassurance and matching urgency, but it was quickly swamped by his own pain as a violent wave of shudders gripped him. Crowley let out a quiet, pained noise, struggling to reach Aziraphale again and wishing more than anything that his partner was there with him. The pain in his side tore deeper, shortening Crowley’s breaths and making his head ring. He tried curling up to alleviate it, and then stretching out, but relief eluded him.

It must have been well past midnight when he threw off the blanket, skin burning, and curled up on his good side on the forest floor instead, heaving in breaths as the world spun. The pain had spread from his side to his entire abdomen, and every faint movement elicited a sharp new wave of pain, wrenching moans from him. He was soaked in sweat now, shaking and struggling to remain conscious, the darkness pressing in around him.

He felt himself briefly black out a few times, exhaustion dragging at him, and forced himself shakily back into a sitting position. He rammed his back against the tree again and threw his head against the trunk, hoping to stay awake if he was more upright. The change in orientation almost made him faint, though, heart hammering weakly in his chest and vision briefly clouding over, pain tearing through his stomach.

The night dragged on, each flutter of Crowley’s eyelids threatening to pull him under before he jolted awake again. Each time he felt himself wander back into consciousness, he thought that an hour must have passed, but the stars didn’t seem to ever make any progress across the sky.

He had no concept of what time it was when a fresh wave of pain accompanied by intense nausea dragged him further into consciousness. The nausea increased, Crowley’s stomach twisting, the sensation stronger even than when the sword had entered him.

Crowley didn’t remember when he started crawling along the ground, away from the tree and the Edenic gate, but he felt the pain from his abdomen tearing through him with every breath. He hadn’t made it very far before the nausea hit him all at once and he retched up what little food he still had in his stomach. The movement tore at him, and he gasped brokenly for breath as he continued retching, seemingly unable to stop, his trembling fingers digging into the soft ground.

He was just getting it under control, head hanging and the taste of bile in his mouth, when he heard Ishtyr speak.

“You have an infection,” he said matter-of-factly.

Crowley dragged his head up, wondering vaguely how long Ishtyr had been standing there.

“Is Aziraphale close?” Ishtyr continued calmly. “I would hate to have to reap you.”

Crowley sank into the grass, only narrowly avoiding the splotches of sick, and rolled clumsily onto his back. His side flared with pain, but Crowley barely felt it, just staring up at the sky and wheezing in broken breaths. There were so many stars above him, filling the sky like a million individual snowflakes. They were so very beautiful, and Crowley remembered all at once just how much he loved the Earth, and how loath he was to leave it.

“Crowley,” Ishtyr said sharply. “How far away is Aziraphale?”

Crowley finally registered the other angel’s words, Ishtyr’s voice seeming distant and faint. “I—I don’t know,” he rasped, voice hoarse and equally distant, as though someone else was speaking.

“Yes, you do,” Ishtyr’s voice said assertively, and then a dark patch appeared in Crowley’s vision, blotting out the stars. It took him a long, slightly panicked moment to realise that Ishtyr was leaning over him. “Aziraphale has a piece of your soul, remember. That bond is stronger than you suspect. How far away is he?”

Crowley stared blankly up at Ishtyr, breaths shallow and rasping, and then reached clumsily for Aziraphale. He felt the same unplaceable sense of urgency as he had earlier, followed by a wave of worry. He searched for an indication of distance, but his own perception was so distorted that he couldn’t process the information, mind racked with pain. “I…don’t know,” Crowley croaked, feeling tears beginning to prick at the corners of his eyes.

Ishtyr sighed. “Do you remember what I told you about soul bonds, when you were with me?”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, mouth twisting as he tried to hold back the tears, slowly dredging up the memory in his mind. “Which…part?”

“When you and Aziraphale bound your souls together, you also bound your fates together,” Ishtyr told him. “Because Aziraphale had eaten the peach, I could not touch him, and so I could not touch you. But that was when the Tree of Life was still standing. Without it, the soul bond isn’t a lifeline—it’s an anchor. If one of you dies, the other will too.”

Crowley’s feverish mind processed this groggily.

“So you need to stay alive, Crowley, for his sake as well as yours, do you understand?”

Crowley let out a long, rattling breath, his head feeling a little clearer as the cool night air played over his burning skin. “Ye—ah.”

“Good. I do not wish to reap you both, but I would have no choice.”

Crowley made a faint noise of agreement. “How…does that work?” he rasped, hoping to distract himself from the searing in his stomach. “You…reaping people…now?”

“I am still Death, if that is what you mean,” Ishtyr said. “I am everywhere, but I do not have to be there in person. These days, over a hundred people die each minute; I cannot attend to them all personally.”

Crowley grunted.

“Let’s say Death is on autopilot,” Ishtyr said.

Crowley continued rasping in shallow breaths, suddenly feeling quite cold again as he stared up at the distant stars, so beautiful and yet so reserved, unable to offer him an ounce of comfort. He missed the blanket.

“You need to sleep,” Ishtyr said, as though reading his mind. “Your body needs rest, if you wish to keep it.”

Crowley made a faint noise of agreement. His previous concerns about Beelzebub killing him while he slept seemed so insignificant now.

“Sleep,” Ishtyr urged.

Crowley’s eyelids began to slink shut before he remembered to force them open again, twisting his head so he could look back the way he’d come, towards the rock marking the location of the Eastern Gate. “Need to…wait,” he rasped, struggling to keep his eyes open.

Ishtyr sighed.

Crowley forced himself onto his wobbly hands and knees and started crawling back towards the tree he’d been sitting against earlier. His abdomen screamed at him the whole way, and he nearly blacked out several times, but he took it slowly, peripherally aware of Ishtyr trailing after him.

He reached the tree and sat back against it, head spinning. He dragged the blanket closer and threw it over himself, shivering.

“Here,” Ishtyr said, and Crowley hazily registered a clear plastic cup being held out to him by a gloved hand. “It’s water. Drink it.”

Crowley took it gratefully, but the cup was so heavy in his hand that he nearly dropped it. He took a few trembling swallows, the water cool on his tongue.

“Try not to move too much,” Ishtyr said. “If Aziraphale arrives, I’ll wake you.”

Crowley nodded, feeling a fresh wave of fatigue roll over him. He nestled the cup of water between two nearby tree roots, the small motion exhausting the last of his strength.

“Aziraphale will be here soon. Whatever you do, don’t stop breathing.”

Crowley gave a tiny nod, and he distantly heard Ishtyr move away. At the next available opportunity, he let the darkness overwhelm him.


	16. The Divine Comedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to my American readers! May you all eat lots of pie!

During a trip to Florence, Donnie had once seen a painting of Hell as Dante had envisioned it, in the form of a fresco by Nardo di Cione in the Santa Maria Novella. The tour group she’d been a part of had nominally been focussed on the church’s historic architecture, but it had been difficult to overlook the colossal fresco. It had dominated an entire wall of one of the church’s transepts, mirrored on the opposite side of the chapel by an equally massive fresco of Heaven.

Whereas Heaven was simply represented by rows and rows of haloed figures, Hell was depicted in agonising detail. Narrow stretches of tan rock divided concentric circles populated with sinners, each tormented according to their sins. Their pale, nude bodies were twisted into grotesque positions, many of them being actively tortured by winged demons or writhing in a river of fire.

What was spread in front of Donnie now looked similar in terms of geology, but had more in common with a beehive than a bucket of worms.

Donnie was standing near the edge of a spur of dark rock that jutted out from near the top of a great cylindrical abyss that reached down almost as far as she could see. The rocky sides of the shaft bore distinctive horizontal striations, as though she were peering down into one of the holes made by scientists boring out ice and rock cores from the Antarctic tundra. The cavernous space wasn’t a completely smooth cylinder, however; the edges were rugged, leaving many platforms and ridges of dark rock clinging to the walls.

The space was swarming with shapes climbing into and out of the mouths of tunnels dotting the cylindrical walls and striding along narrow walkways chiselled into the sides of the shaft. More creatures flitted around in the air, moving solo or in tandem, as though following invisible directions. When they flew in groups, they swarmed together like bats in a cave, and it seemed like they would funnel up towards her in a swarm of black wings at any moment.

That’s what Donnie thought they were for one terrified second, giant bats flitting around this hellish shaft to the underworld.

She was still clutching her torch, frozen in fear and surprise and wondering where on Earth the field had gone, when one of them surged upwards past her, only a few metres away. Donnie screamed and staggered backwards until she reached a wall, and she pressed herself against it. To her absolute horror, the creature paused in its flight, huge black wings flaring out, and a moment later it touched down directly in front of her.

It was a rather ordinary-looking man in an ill-fitting navy blazer, brown paisley button-up, and khaki shorts, but two huge black wings emerged from its back, still flared for flight. They weren’t the membranous wings of a bat, Donnie saw as she prepared to faint, but the feathered wings of a large bird.

A bit to her disappointment, Donnie didn’t faint, and instead she threw her torch at the creature, hoping to scare it off.

It bounced off the creature’s chest and clattered to the ground, the beam of light spilling over a nearby rock. The man-shaped creature blinked at her. “Hello.”

“Get—get back,” Donnie said, voice shaking. She was horribly aware that she had just thrown away her only potential weapon.

The creature spread its arms in what might have been a gesture of goodwill, but the motion only seemed to emphasise the fact that it had her pinned against the wall.

“Do not fear, human.” It tilted its head at her, and then a bright expression came over its face. “You do not have much sin. I will help you get to Heaven.”

“N—no, thank you,” Donnie stammered, flattening herself against the rock wall behind her and feeling around frantically for her mobile in her coat pocket.

“I insist,” the creature said, stepping forward and grabbing her by the arm.

Donnie tried to tear her arm away, preparing to scream, but then the creature yanked her closer and toppled backwards, sending both of them pitching off the edge of the spur of rock.

Donnie screamed as she felt herself plunging downwards headfirst at an incredible speed, clinging to the arms and shoulders of her captor as its huge black wings snapped out. The world spun nauseatingly, and she had barely registered that she was right-side up again before their velocity abruptly slowed and she was set down rather gently by the creature.

For a second she just clung to it, heart hammering. Once she’d registered that she was back on her own feet, she scrambled backwards as best she could, tearing herself from the creature and hurriedly glancing around herself for an escape route. She was now halfway down the open-air shaft, standing on a large shelf of rock. Black-winged, human-shaped creatures were milling around, along with a number of wingless people who looked reassuringly normal, if a little haggard. She only barely stopped herself from screaming again as the creature who had carried her here grabbed her arm. It—he?—tugged her along to where another creature, this one with white wings, was standing with its back to them beside one of the clusters of stressed-looking, wingless people.

“Kazariel!” the creature dragging Donnie along said as he bounded forward.

The white-winged creature turned, and Donnie saw that its body was that of a woman, red hair spilling over her shoulders. She was wearing impressive-looking armour made of white leather and some sort of silvery metal, and there was a sword at her side.

The creature—Kazariel, evidently—gave Donnie a cursory glance. “Look, you’ve gone and scared another one stiff, what have I told you?”

“She’s for Heaven,” the creature holding Donnie said eagerly. “I found one, like you said.”

Kazariel nodded absently and glanced over her shoulder towards where another white-winged creature, this one a rather muscular male, was shepherding people around. Donnie’s eyes fell again on the group of normal-looking people nearby; they appeared a rather diverse bunch, but the expressions of pain and exhaustion on their faces were all the same. The dreadful thought occurred to Donnie that she must have found herself in the midst of some sort of operation to feed or sacrifice these people—perhaps herself included—to a hellish, Morlock-esque monster; ‘Heaven’ was almost certainly a codename for their ghastly fate.

“No, no, no,” Donnie stammered, trying to break free. The creature held her fast.

Kazariel glanced back at her again. “Yeah, okay. Give her to me.”

The creature shoved Donnie forward, as though presenting a gift. Kazariel took her by the shoulder and started steering her towards the group of normal-looking people. Donnie wanted to run, but she was very aware that her arthritis-riddled knees wouldn’t take her very far, and she was surrounded to boot.

“There you are,” Kazariel said, nudging her into the crowd and glancing over again at the muscular winged creature.

Donnie hesitated for a moment, considering trying to run anyway, but in the end just allowed herself to be herded closer to the group of wingless people, too terrified of the consequences of insubordination. She quickly focussed on not panicking as she allowed herself to join the crowd. As she’d noticed before, there was quite a range of ethnicities and ages, and they all looked like they’d seen a war. It showed in their clothes as well as on their faces; many of them wore shirts, trousers, or robes with severe burns, rips, or other damage.

“H—hello?” Donnie asked a nearby woman wearing a wimple and a long green dress.

The woman gave her a tentative smile. “Good day.”

“I’m Donnie,” Donnie said quickly, hoping that if she was friendly the woman might help her. “Do you know what’s going on?”

The woman opened her mouth to respond, but that was when Kazariel turned back to them, spreading her wings like banners. Several more creatures, with both white and black wings, clustered behind her.

“All right, listen up,” Kazariel announced, accent perfectly British. “You’re among the most innocent in Hell—those who just barely didn’t make the cut—and you’ve since repented for your sins sufficiently. We’re going to be taking you up to Heaven, where the archangel Azrael will make sure you are cared for.” She motioned to the winged creatures behind her, and they moved forward, each selecting one of the people in the crowd.

One with black wings took up position beside Donnie, and she realised with a tremor of fear that the creatures were going to take them away now. She looked around frantically, hoping for inspiration of any sort, but nothing presented itself. She thought again of trying to flee, but knew she would be easily caught and possibly killed for her impertinence. If this wasn’t all some fever dream, that was. Perhaps she had had a stroke in that field and her corpse was lying there still.

The woman in the wimple, who was standing near another of the creatures, saw her panicked expression and gave her a puzzled but reassuring smile.

“The trip might be a little dizzying,” Kazariel warned, and then each of the winged creatures reached for their chosen captive. “Try not to squirm.”

The winged creature beside Donnie gracelessly swept her off her feet and into his arms. She bit back a shriek and immediately tried to squirm away, legs kicking uselessly in the air and only encouraging her arthritis to return. A heartbeat later, the creature spread black wings and pushed off.

Donnie screwed her eyes shut and threw her arms around the creature’s neck as she felt air rushing past her. It was a much smoother ride than the way down, however, and she eventually brought herself to blink her eyes open. The group of them were spiralling upwards, the creatures’ wings carving out swaths of air and pushing them ever higher. They weren’t far below the lip of the shaft now, the sky above them a dusty blue-grey.

Before long, they were spiralling up past the top of the shaft, the air shimmering around them. For a moment, their surroundings faded entirely to grey, the cylindrical chasm beneath them vanishing into the mist. Donnie looked down in surprise, and then the grey haze cleared to reveal a green-black patchwork spread below them. Donnie stared down at the field her body was presumably sprawled in, the ground now too far away for her to make out any useful details.

“Wh—what?” she stammered to herself, arms still clasped around the neck of the winged creature, black wings bearing her even higher. Beneath them, the field was dwindling in size, the headlights of cars on nearby roads passing underneath them. There was no hint of a breeze, though, no wind caused by anything other than the wings of the creatures.

“We’re passing the Earth,” the winged creature holding her supplied, making her jolt a little in surprise. “Do not fear.”

Donnie stared down at the dwindling features of her home, the nearby A50 appearing as a narrow line of lights. “But—but—we went straight through the ground—”

“Earth is in a different plane,” the winged creature explained. “Nearby, but not here. Do not worry yourself over it.”

Then, a heartbeat later, the shrinking city lights vanished into the grey haze just like the chasm had. Donnie blinked down into the greyness in alarm. It seemed utterly formless, making her wonder nervously if it was mist at all, or just endless reflected colour, like the dome of the sky.

As she watched, the greyness began to steadily grow brighter, as though they were approaching a shuttered light source in a heavy fog. She realised that they must be very high now, and tightened her grip on the winged creature. She wished very much that she were home right now.

The air grew even brighter and then began to shift into a crystal blue. She saw a few of the winged creatures in her field of vision begin to slow the strokes of their wings, moving laterally now instead of vertically. Then the creature carrying Donnie banked to one side, and she saw where they were headed.

In front of them, hovering in the middle of the blue-grey mist like something from that _Avatar_ film, stood a fabulous set of gates. An elaborate gatehouse stood around them, made from white brick and flanked by two square Mannerist towers, each topped with a small cupola bearing a delicate finial. A tall white stone wall ran off in either direction of the gatehouse for as far as the eye could see, and in front of the gate, jutting out into thin air with no visible support, was a small platform paved with white flagstones.

“Is—is that…?”

The creature holding her touched down a moment later, releasing her onto the white stone platform alongside the others and folding his wings. The gates looked like they were made of gold, not pearl, and were covered with inscriptions, but Donnie recognised St Peter’s gates when she saw them.

“Anael,” Kazariel called, striding towards the gates and spreading her wings.

“Oh my G—I—I’m _dead_ ,” Donnie realised all at once. She _must have_ had a heart attack in that field, she realised with horror. She had _died_ , and come to Heaven. Her mind went to Bert, who she had planned on spending a great deal more time with. She wondered if he knew yet, and if he would be okay. Then her mind went to Persephone and Maximilian, her two cats, and she wondered if someone would take them in.

She barely registered when all the black-winged creatures took flight, or when the gates opened. She just numbly followed the others, shell-shocked, as they were herded through the gates.

Donnie had to admit she hadn’t thought it would be like this. Wasn’t Heaven supposed to be eternal bliss and reunions with those who had passed before you? Where was Christ in all his glory, and the Holy Spirit made manifest? It was then that she realised with a jolt that the winged creatures must be angels. It seemed perfectly obvious now that she thought about it. And that other place, with the dark rock and haggard faces…could that have been _Hell?_

The thought was extremely unnerving, though she had to admit that she’d expected more fire and boiling cauldrons. But why had _she_ been there, in the first place, if she had been destined for Heaven?

Then it occurred to her all in a rush that perhaps it was because she _wasn’t_ destined for Heaven. That creature who had found her had been a little too eager, hadn’t he? And the woman—Kazariel—had been awfully distracted. She had died in that field and gone directly to _Hell_.

The thought chilled Donnie to her core, and she hastily looked back over her life, tallying her sins. She believed in God and had gone to church devoutly as a young girl, and though she had continued to go, if slightly more intermittently, as an adult, it had become quite a pantomime for her, hadn’t it? Christ this, Holy Spirit that—when was the last time she had prayed and truly meant it, not just recited the words while her mind wandered to other matters?

And then there was the matter of her marriages. Fabian, her first husband, had been an idiot and a bit of a gambler, and though she had given him enough trouble to convince him that a mutual parting was best, the point remained that they had been one flesh. They had been married before God, and then she had turned her back on that covenant and married another man. Perhaps that was socially acceptable these days, but did God keep up with the times?

Donnie looked over her day-to-day actions next and found herself also wanting there. She tried to be kind and patient, but she knew her charity was lacking and she had often preferred the company of her cats over those who might have benefited from her help. She was always nice to retail staff and quilted weekly with the church ladies in Charringford, but some of the discussions they had there weren’t exactly fit for God’s ears. She engaged in gossip far more than she knew was right, hadn’t said grace before a meal since she was fourteen, and as a young woman had batted her eyes at far too many men.

The part of Hell Donnie had just seen had been relatively unfrightening, but who knew what lay within those darkened tunnels? The angels were fearsome enough; what could she expect of the demons?

Donnie was still turning this very troubling matter over in her head when she realised where the cluster of people she was following were certainly going: the Judgment. The others in the group had come to be here honourably, but she knew that her presence here was a mistake, an error made by the overly eager angel in Hell. She would be put in front of the Lord, and she would be found wanting.

Donnie began to properly panic, looking around herself at the brilliant green grass and white brick road beneath her. There was a smaller gate up ahead, she saw, but they were in hilly country now, rows of deciduous trees dotting the crests. She could see a perfectly square cluster of conifers only a few hills away, their branches bushy enough to hide her. Perhaps she could get away, and, and—

And what? She was dead. She was being taken to be judged, and then she would be sent back to Hell where she belonged, for loving more than one man and for spending money she could have been giving to charity on luxury brand cat food. She knew all about Hell, knew about it from that Florentine fresco and the man on the telly when she’d been a little girl who’d ranted about brimstone and hellfire.

But she wasn’t at the Judgment quite yet. And anything she could do to postpone her inevitable fate had to be in her best interests, surely? It was far better, she felt suddenly certain, to be a fugitive in Heaven than a captive in Hell.

So she allowed her pace to slow, heeding the protests of her knees and lagging behind until she was at the very rear of the small crowd. Everyone else seemed excited, smiling cautiously and looking ahead with interest. They must know they were meant to be here, Donnie realised—they must be able to feel the righteousness of their deeds the same way Donnie could feel the sinfulness of hers.

There was no angel keeping up the rear of the group, only one on either side who glanced back occasionally. They didn’t look like they were expecting runaways.

They were growing quite near to the small, triple-bay gate now, about to pass the last line of trees. One of the pair of guards at the gate had stepped away from her post and was flagging Kazariel down. The angel nearest Donnie moved forward to hear what she had to say.

“—still working on infrastructure,” Donnie overheard as she slowed her pace even further, allowing herself to lag behind, beginning to fall behind the main group. “Jerahmiel’s looking after the Redeemed souls…”

Donnie didn’t hear any more, turning and fast-walking as quickly as her legs would carry her towards the nearest line of trees, afraid that if she broke into a staggering run the movement would attract attention.

Much to her surprise, she didn’t hear any shouts, and she reached the first tree without incident, pressing her back to the trunk and trying to make herself small. Even crossing the short distance had left her a little out of breath, and she took a moment to recover, feeling very much like the Lord should have found some way to overcome old age like he had death.

Voices floated towards her, too far away now for her to pick out any words. She moved cautiously along the row of deciduous trees, limping from the shelter of one trunk to the next as her knees betrayed her again, each unsteady step taking her steadily further from the gate and the crowd of people waiting to be judged. Her eyes riveted themselves on the copse of conifers and she started cautiously towards it, glancing nervously over her shoulder as she made her way across the open grass.

She picked up the pace as soon as she could, doing her best to ignore the pain in her knees as she hastened over the crest of a slight hill. She was nearing the relative safety of the conifers now, her chest heaving with exertion and knees promising a very nasty ache later. She staggered between the nearest two trees of the copse, pine needles tearing at her shins and arms, and stumbled into the semi-shadowed area within the cluster of trees.

“You’re sure you sa— _whoa!”_

Donnie stumbled to a stop as she almost collided with a man in a cobalt blue riding jacket.

“Oh—oh!” Donnie stammered, quickly trying to reverse out of the copse before she was caught, heart hammering in her chest.

The man in the riding jacket grabbed her by the arm and held her fast, though. “Hey, shh, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Are we compromised?” another man—there were four of them, Donnie saw—whispered fiercely. This one looked quite ridiculous, with his hair pulled back and tied with a satin bow and a russet frock coat that only partially covered a frilly white shirt.

The other two men dashed off before Donnie could get a good look at them, moving through the trees and peering between their branches.

“I just want to hide,” Donnie pleaded with the man in the blue riding jacket, since he looked relatively friendly. “Please.”

“All right,” the man said, but kept a tight grip on her arm until the others had returned. One, she saw, was wearing a sensible, if slightly dated, suit, and the other looked like he’d walked off the set of _Spartacus_.

“No one’s coming,” the man in the suit reported, eyeing Donnie. She straightened her back and put her chin up.

“Don’t run off, and keep your voice down,” the man in the riding jacket told Donnie, and released her arm.

“Who are you, _puella_?” the man in the toga asked.

Donnie adjusted her coat slightly. “Donnie S—Marley. Donnie Marley. I’m d—de—” the word trembled on her tongue, and she had to swallow before she could continue. “I think I’m dead.”

“Join the club,” the man in the suit said. “What are you doing out here?”

Donnie glanced around at the four of them cautiously; they certainly looked harmless enough—it was hard to imagine them as threats in their ridiculous costumes—but you never knew.

“I’m hiding,” she admitted. “I think I’m supposed to be in Hell.”

“Why do you think that?” the man in the russet coat asked, his accent distinctly American.

“I—I married twice,” she admitted. “And I think I was there, earlier—”

“Don’t worry about the marriage thing,” the man in the suit assured her. “You’re wondering because of the Church, right?”

Donnie blinked at him in surprise and nodded.

The man waved away her concerns. “From what I’ve been able to tell, God doesn’t listen to men in funny hats when He decides who goes where. Ludwig here—” He gestured at the man in the blue riding coat— “is a bona fide homosexual. Alexander—” He motioned to the man in the russet coat— “had a very public affair and about broke his wife’s heart—” Alexander began to interrupt, but the man in the suit spoke over him— “and Otho here isn’t even a Christian! He actually _persecuted_ Christians, and then committed suicide! Really, Otho, it’s a miracle you’re here at all.”

“I didn’t _personally_ persecute anyone,” Otho grumbled. “It’s not my fault Nero was a paranoid maniac.”

“Yes, well, the point still stands.”

“But I—I _was_ in Hell,” Donnie said uncertainly, only able to process about half of what had just been told to her. “I _saw_ it—”

“Oh, she must be one of the Redeemed ones,” Alexander said, addressing his words to the other men. “They started bringing them up a week ago, and Azrael’s been putting them under Jerahmiel’s guard. Jophiel’s up in arms about it, but Azrael’s the one in charge, and she’s still vexed he voted against letting Crowley in in the first place.”

“We keep him around for the politics,” Ludwig said to Donnie conversationally, jerking his thumb at Alexander, who scowled at him.

“Hang on,” Donnie said, grasping onto the one fragment of what had just been said that she understood. “Did you say ‘Crowley’?”

The four of them looked at her.

“Crowley, yeah,” Alexander confirmed.

“Dark hair, gold eyes, generally a dear?”

The men looked dumbfounded.

“You know him?” the man in the suit asked in surprise. “And Aziraphale?”

“They live in Midfarthing, my village,” Donnie explained. “Or…what used to be my village.” Her thoughts returned to Bert, and the fact that he had gone to so very many funerals already. She tried to tear her mind back to more pressing matters. “How do you know them?”

The four of them exchanged glances. “It’s a long story,” Ludwig said.

“You should go back to the angels,” the man in the suit suggested. “If you’ve been Redeemed, they’ll find a heaven for you. You’ll be safe.”

Donnie looked back and forth amongst them. “No, please, I—is there anywhere else you could take me? I’m not ready. Not yet.”

They exchanged glances again.

“There was someone else we ran into who was from Midfarthing, wasn’t there?” Alexander asked after a long moment. “Perhaps she could stay in their heaven.”

“Yes,” Otho agreed. “I remember that heaven. Quite strange to meet someone else from the magician’s settlement.”

“What do you think of that?” Ludwig asked her. “We can take you to someone else from Midfarthing who has died, and maybe they’ll let you stay with them for a little while? Only if they’re willing, of course.”

“That would be great,” Donnie said quickly, eager to be anywhere but under the righteous eyes of the angels. With any luck, she’d also be able to get off her feet for a while, and maybe even borrow a cold pack.

“All right,” Ludwig said, looking around at the others and nodding. He turned and peered out through a gap in the trees behind him. “Now, follow me exactly.”

 

~~***~~

 

Harahel roused the three human children as carefully as he could, noting again the faint auras of power around the girl and the elder boy.

“It’s time to leave,” Harahel told them gently. “We’re going to go find your grandfather now.”

“Cool,” Annabelle said with a stifled yawn, sitting up and stretching theatrically.

“I just had to fetch my book,” Harahel said, patting the tome under his arm. It was one of the oldest books in his collection, and one of only two in existence. Unbeknownst to Harahel, the other had recently taken up residence in Aziraphale’s Soho bookshop. “I hope you’re up for a little walking.”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, making his way to his feet.

“Sleep a little longer?” Henry, the youngest, asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes with his fists.

“We’re going adventuring, sleepy!” Annabelle said, nudging Henry’s shoulder as she climbed to her feet. She eyed Harahel up bravely. “You don’t have any breakfast, do you?”

“What would you like?”

“Doughnuts!” Thomas said quickly. “With jam in the middle!”

“Yeah!” Henry agreed, quickly sitting up, all traces of sleep gone from his face. “Doughnuts!”

Three miracled doughnuts later, Harahel herded the children from the library and stepped outside himself. He had almost forgotten how springy the grass was underfoot.

“Now, don’t wander off,” Harahel said sternly. “It could be dangerous.”

“Like, monsters?” Annabelle asked brightly. “Big robots that go _pew pew pew_ and evil sorcerers?”

“Uh…yes,” Harahel said, pulling the first of the two double doors to the library towards himself with some difficulty. A shower of dust rained down its side, catching on the intricate metalwork.

“And—and scary dinosaurs in spaceships?” Henry asked hopefully.

“Precisely,” Harahel agreed, moving to the second door and tugging it forward too, the metal groaning as the hinge protested. “Which is why you must stay close to me. Do you understand?”

There was a chorus of agreement from behind Harahel as he took the ring handle on each door in either hand and stepped backwards, beginning to draw the doors together.

“Good,” Harahel said, and pulled the doors to Heaven’s library closed for the first time in six millennia. The sound reverberated through the air, more dust cascading down the metalwork.

Then Harahel turned and shook the dust from his own wings for the first time in almost as long. “Now, let’s go find your grandfather.”


	17. Daybreak

When Crowley jolted awake, he was distantly surprised to see that it was morning, the first fingers of light from the dawn spilling over the muted horizon.

He took a sharp breath and immediately regretted it, his chest tightening. He had slept exceptionally poorly, jerking awake every ten minutes or so as a fresh wave of pain rolled over him. He must have managed to stay under a little longer this time, because he didn’t remember having seen the dawn approaching. He felt like he was burning up, his body heat trapped by the blanket still stretched across his chest and legs. He wanted to move the blanket but didn’t know if he had the strength, feeling lightheaded and very weak all over.

Crowley shifted his legs slightly and was rewarded with an incredible burst of pain from his abdomen. He only barely bit back a cry, his whole body throbbing and his stomach feeling hard and misshapen. Despite his feverish nap, he felt exhausted all the way to his bones.

He glanced around himself weakly, body protesting even that slight movement, but nothing seemed amiss. He was vaguely aware of Beelzebub and Ishtyr somewhere behind him, their auras hanging in the air, but in front of him there was nothing but the rock and the Eastern Gate, still closed.

For a moment Crowley thought it must have been the sun that had woken him, the light beginning to spill across Eden, but then he felt something incredibly dear brush against his soul.

“A—ziraphale?” Crowley rasped, throat dry and voice sounding faint even to his own ears. He roved his eyes around again, too exhausted to move his head. He saw no sign of his angel and wondered with sudden alarm whether he had missed Aziraphale while he slept, if perhaps his partner had walked straight past him.

Crowley took another breath, this one even shorter than the last, and shifted his hands under the blanket as he struggled to rouse himself further. Every twitch of his abdomen sent the most excruciating pain shooting through him, though, and he reluctantly let himself fall still again, breaths fast and head spinning. The pain in his stomach sank back to a controllable level, tearing at him quietly while he let his eyelids sink closed, reaching for Aziraphale through the soul bond.

He felt a responding touch in return almost right away, a burst of relief followed by intense concern. He was close; Crowley was certain of it.

Crowley felt a faint smile of relief cross his face, tears beginning to burn in his sinuses. For a moment he just sat there and sucked in shaking breaths, overwhelmed with emotion.

“Ish—Ishtyr,” Crowley rasped as loudly as he could, which was admittedly not very loud at all. “Be—Beelz—” Crowley’s breath caught and he coughed, the motion shaking him and sending hot spears of pain from his abdomen up into his chest. “O—ow.”

He fell silent again, drawing trembling breaths and feeling the warmth in his chest grow steadily brighter as Aziraphale neared, the sensation of his angel the only part of himself that didn’t ache with pain. A few minutes passed, the fatigue threatening to pull Crowley under again, but he fought against it, knowing Aziraphale would be there at any moment.

And then, at long last, a thin vertical line of light appeared in front of Crowley, directly over the rock, and the world opened up.

The hazy shapes of the Iranian landscape parted, pushed to either side like the two halves of a curtain, revealing a sandy desert and the most wonderful person in Crowley’s life.

Aziraphale didn’t waste any time, leaving the sword lodged in the rock and crossing into Eden in three strides. Two more took him to Crowley’s side, and the next thing Crowley knew Aziraphale was cupping his face with one hand while his other hovered worriedly over the blanket draped across his partner’s chest.

“Crowley? Crowley? By God, you frightened me.” Aziraphale’s voice was shaking, and he pressed a hasty kiss to Crowley’s lips, eyes frantically searching his partner’s. “Don’t you _dare_ ever scare me like that again.”

Crowley felt like he might cry with relief, sinuses burning and Aziraphale’s hand so real against his cheek. “Zir—Zira,” he rasped weakly, trying to raise a hand to his angel but finding himself defeated by the blanket.

“Oh, my dear, I came as quickly as I could,” Aziraphale said, expression brimming with concern as he brushed back a lock of Crowley’s hair, eyes still searching Crowley’s. “I’m sorry it took so long, but the nearest hellgate was all the way in Nineveh.” He put the back of his hand on Crowley’s forehead, and, despite the fact that Aziraphale’s own cheeks were flush with exertion, his hand was cool against Crowley’s skin. “Oh, you’re burning up, you must—”

“Well, I’ll be twice damned,” Beelzebub’s voice said.

Aziraphale spun in an instant, his hand leaving Crowley’s forehead as three sets of brilliant white wings erupted from his back, fanning out and blocking Crowley’s view.

Crowley felt his own power building in Aziraphale, and knew that his partner was preparing to defend them both.

 _“Hell’s teeth_ , you’re a seraph _too?”_ Beelzebub sounded incredulous, but Crowley didn’t feel his aura brightening, as it would if he were preparing to attack.

“Z—Zira,” Crowley said as loudly as he could, the effort tightening his chest. “W—wait, they’re…friendly.”

He felt more than saw Aziraphale hesitate, wings still cordoning off his view.

“Zira,” Crowley rasped again, struggling to free a hand from the blanket and wincing as the pain stabbed deeper.

He saw Aziraphale begin to retract his wings, the power in the air dissipating slightly, but then a heartbeat later it was back in full force, Aziraphale’s wings snapping back out to shield Crowley from further harm. _“Lucifer?_ What the _hell_ are you playing at? …And what the _hell_ are you wearing?”

“Not Lucifer,” Crowley heard Ishtyr’s voice say calmly. “I am Ishtyr. You know me better as Death. We’ve met.”

Aziraphale’s borrowed wings stayed taut. “What?”

“Beelzebub gave me a fruit from the Tree of Life before it fell,” Ishtyr said in that matter-of-fact way of his. “It is a long story.”

“I’m sure it is,” Aziraphale growled. “But first, which one of you did this to Crowley?”

“Neither,” Beelzebub’s voice said smoothly. “It was the Metatron.”

Crowley saw Aziraphale’s wings lower slightly in surprise. “The _Metatron?_ What do they have to do with anything?”

“They were lying in wait here,” Beelzebub said. “They attacked Crowley, killed me, cut down the Tree, and locked us in here.”

“I was able to send Beelzebub back,” Ishtyr supplied, “since he had eaten from the Tree before it fell.”

Crowley watched his three sets of wings fade from Aziraphale’s back, and then Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder at him quickly. “Is that what happened?”

It seemed pretty clear to Crowley that Beelzebub was skating over his own involvement with the Metatron, which had resulted in the other seraph being there in the first place, but Crowley didn’t have the breath to explain it all right now. Besides, it would only make Aziraphale want to kill Beelzebub, and Crowley wanted Aziraphale to stay with him.

“Pretty…much,” Crowley rasped.

Aziraphale shifted backwards a little, moving one hand onto Crowley’s shoulder but keeping his eyes fixed on Beelzebub and Ishtyr, as though he expected them to strike at any moment. A heartbeat later, Crowley felt his own power flow through him, channelled by Aziraphale, attempting to heal him.

“That won’t work,” Ishtyr said. “Beelzebub already tried. The Metatron had one of the sword keys to Eden, and they’re heavily enchanted divine blades. The wounds they inflict are impervious to angelic or demonic healing.”

Crowley made a faint noise of agreement, and Aziraphale shot him another, very worried look.

“He needs to go to the nearest human hospital, straight away,” Ishtyr continued. “His corporation must be healed. The wound has an infection.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at them, one hand still steady on Crowley’s shoulder. “Why are you being so helpful?”

“Lucifer and I made a deal with Crowley,” Beelzebub supplied. “Crowley helped us, so in return I helped him. The debt has been paid.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale asked, sounding very much like he doubted it.

“Yes,” Beelzebub replied. “And now, if you will excuse us, Ishtyr and I are returning to Hell.”

Crowley expected Aziraphale to protest that too, but he said nothing.

Beelzebub started past Aziraphale, who quickly stood and took several steps backwards, the reassuring weight of his hand leaving Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley made a weak sound of protest as Aziraphale moved away, still struggling to free his hand from the blanket. He looked longingly after Aziraphale, who came to a stop next to the rock and planted one hand firmly on the pommel of the sword still emerging from its surface. It took Crowley a moment to realise that he was guarding it while first Beelzebub and then Ishtyr strode past him.

“I would rather not reap you two,” Ishtyr said to Aziraphale as he passed. “Please do try not to get killed.”

“Say hello to Lucifer for me,” Aziraphale shot back, and then Beelzebub and Ishtyr spread their wings, Beelzebub’s three pairs jet black and Ishtyr’s single set as white as the day they had been made.

Aziraphale stood there for a few moments after they had left, evidently to make sure they had really gone, and then turned and hurried back to Crowley’s side.

“I’m so sorry, my dear, are you okay? It’s your side, right?” Aziraphale put his hand back on Crowley’s cheek, and then moved it again to his forehead, a distressed expression coming across his features.

Crowley nodded, even that small motion draining. He tried to reach for Aziraphale again, overcome by the depth of emotion in Aziraphale’s eyes, so much clearer in person than the vague impressions conveyed by the soul bond.

This time, Aziraphale seemed to notice the faint movement of the blanket, and he quickly and carefully pulled it off of Crowley. A wave of cool air rushed over him as, finally freed, Crowley reached up for Aziraphale’s shoulder. His strength failed him, though, and instead his hand fell to Aziraphale’s forearm, his fingers clinging weakly to fabric of his partner’s sleeve as tears streaked down his nose. _Here_ was Aziraphale, after that endless, agonising night, here at last, and Crowley was saved.

“I’ve got you, my dear,” Aziraphale said reassuringly, taking Crowley’s hand from his sleeve and drawing it closer, pressing Crowley’s palm against his shoulder. Crowley felt himself start crying harder, absurdly relieved to see Aziraphale, but then he started shaking and fresh bolts of pain ripped up his side. He gasped brokenly, and Aziraphale’s expression immediately crashed back into concern, the hand he had on Crowley’s forehead going back to his cheek.

The worst of the pain faded and Crowley rasped in a few trembling breaths, trying very hard not to start shaking again.

“Can I take a look?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley nodded weakly, trying to hold back more tears.

Aziraphale raised the hand Crowley was clinging to his shoulder with to his lips, kissed it, and transferred it to his elbow, where Crowley latched on again.

Then Aziraphale’s gaze flicked down to Crowley’s abdomen, and he nudged away the edge of Crowley’s suit jacket. He gently pulled up the bottom of Crowley’s shirt next, revealing the bandage. Crowley didn’t have to see it himself to know that it couldn’t have looked good. He’d felt himself slowly bleeding throughout the night, and imagined the bandage was likely soaked through.

“We should change this,” Aziraphale said. “It’ll only take a couple of minutes, and if we leave it like this it’ll only worsen the infection.”

Crowley nodded numbly, more than willing to do whatever Aziraphale asked of him. Aziraphale removed the hand he had on Crowley’s cheek and replaced it with a gentle kiss. Crowley’s eyes started to water again as he dimly felt Aziraphale tug the ends of the bandage free. As he worked at the knot, the backs of his knuckles brushed Crowley’s side. Though it was his uninjured side, it sent a thrill of pain through him, a warning of what was to come.

He shivered again, weakly, as Aziraphale pulled the knot free and quickly started unwinding the bandage.

“Can you—could you lean forward a little?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley considered, but even the faint tightening of the muscles around his abdomen sent an incredible bolt of pain through him, and he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, sounding worried. When Crowley opened his eyes again, the pain receding slightly, he saw Aziraphale looking anxiously down at the bandage. Crowley felt a sudden pang of guilt for disappointing Aziraphale, and for not being strong enough. It went straight to his heart, and a fresh round of tears welled up.

“I—I can try—” he stammered.

“Oh, no, it’s all right,” Aziraphale said soothingly. “Here, I’ll help.” He miracled a pillow into his hand. “I’ll lean you forward and then put this behind your shoulders, okay? I just need a little room to get this bandage off.”

Crowley nodded shakily, feeling more tears rolling down his nose and thinking about how little he deserved Aziraphale.

“Okay, here goes,” Aziraphale said, leaning forward so that Crowley’s head was near Aziraphale’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms as far as he could around Crowley, the pillow clutched in one hand. Aziraphale drew a deep breath, secured his grip on his partner, and pulled Crowley’s upper body towards him slightly.

A wave of pain crashed through Crowley as his abdomen flexed, wrenching a whimper from him before stealing all the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping breathlessly into Aziraphale’s shoulder. The hand he had on Aziraphale’s elbow clung on for dear life as he felt himself nearly black out, ears ringing ominously.

Then a moment later Aziraphale eased him back onto the pillow, and it was the same torture but in reverse, the pain rattling up into his chest and sending more tears rolling down his cheeks.

“There, there, Crowley, oh, I’m so sorry, you’re doing great,” Aziraphale said, voice distressed as he pulled back, hands moving to cradle Crowley’s face. His palms felt so very cold against Crowley’s feverish skin as Crowley struggled to meet his partner’s gaze, vision dipping to black several times and ears still ringing. Then Aziraphale pulled his hands away, gave Crowley a brief but heartfelt kiss on the lips, and resumed unwinding the bandage from around Crowley’s stomach.

Crowley shivered miserably as he let his head sink back against the pillow, wincing as each layer of bandage stuck to the one below it, caked with half-dried blood.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said, voice tight, as he kept at it. It wasn’t long before he was down to the final few layers, the tugging at the wound becoming so insistent that Crowley had to close his eyes and just try to keep breathing.

And then it was just the final layer, which seemed to have almost welded itself to the wound, sticking on each stitch and buried in the clotted blood.

“This isn’t going to come away easy,” Aziraphale warned fretfully, glancing up at Crowley and then over at the expanse of Iranian desert visible behind him. He miracled a wet cloth and a pair of narrow-bladed surgical scissors into his hands. “I’m going to try to get as much of it off as I can, okay?”

Crowley nodded numbly.

“Who did the stitches?” Aziraphale asked as he started gently pulling at the end of the bandage, testing it.

“Be—elzebub,” Crowley rasped.

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, gently pressing the wet cloth to Crowley’s skin just above the wound. Though it was a gentle touch, it sent pangs of pain up Crowley’s side, and he twitched his shoulders uncomfortably. Then he felt the first drops of warm, slightly salty water seep into the wound, and he couldn’t stop himself from trying to jerk away, the motion sending a wave of pain crashing over him.

“Shh,” Aziraphale said, pressing the warm cloth against the wound with one hand. He moved the forearm of his other arm so it was resting across Crowley’s clavicles, forcing him back against the pillow. Crowley felt more water seep over his ravaged skin and he shook violently, trying to wrench himself away from Aziraphale.

“Sorry. Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said, voice stressed as he leaned harder against Crowley, pinning him to the tree and preventing him from moving more than an inch or two.

When Crowley had grown accustomed to the shock, fresh sweat breaking out over his skin, Aziraphale sat back and pulled away the cloth, vanishing it into whatever void he had summoned it from. Crowley trembled as he collapsed back against the pillow, chest heaving painfully.

Aziraphale started pulling the bandage the rest of the way off, the water having softened the blood clots. It still stung, but Crowley was able to just sit there and pant while Aziraphale peeled it off, using the scissors in a few places. Finally, it was gone.

Crowley unsteadily fixed his eyes on a patch of sky visible over Aziraphale’s shoulder, the pain battering against him in waves. He barely registered the thankful kiss Aziraphale planted on his cheek.

“Almost done, my dear,” Aziraphale promised, followed by a long pause. Crowley exhaustedly flicked his gaze down and saw Aziraphale eyeing his side worriedly.

Crowley tilted his own head down, the effort seeming herculean.

The wound in his side was nothing short of ugly, the skin on either side raised into an angry red welt. The sutures stood out starkly against his splotchy skin, the dark ‘x’s the only thing holding the ruined sides of his flesh together. The centre of the wound seemed the worst, oozing blood and something yellow-green that didn’t look very good at all.

“Huh,” Crowley said, unable to summon any further emotion, feeling empty.

“You—you’re going to be okay,” Aziraphale said, conjuring a fresh roll of bandages and beginning to wind them around Crowley, his voice only trembling a little. “Right as rain, you’ll see.”

Crowley grunted an affirmation and tilted his head back against the pillow, feeling like he was about to black out at any moment.

The application of the fresh bandage went much quicker, and before long Aziraphale was carefully tying it and gently patting Crowley’s shirt and jacket back into place.

“How are you doing, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, voice worried as he moved a hand back to Crowley’s cheek, wiping away the beads of sweat that had appeared there. “Are you still with me?”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise deep in his throat, eyes only half open.

“Okay, let’s get you to hospital,” Aziraphale said, pulling his hand away and miracling the blanket out of existence. He must have spied the cup of water nestled in the tree roots nearby, because he picked it up and glanced at its contents in surprise. “Do you want any water?”

Crowley considered the offer, feeling too far gone to care, but forced himself to make a faint, affirmative noise nonetheless.

Aziraphale brought the cup over and, when Crowley couldn’t lift his hand more than a few inches from his lap, raised it to Crowley’s lips himself.

Aziraphale tilted the cup slowly and Crowley managed to get in a few swallows, feeling water dribbling down his chin. He recognised dimly that he must appear particularly pathetic, but he honestly couldn’t bring himself to care, pain playing along every nerve and his fatigue growing with every passing second.

“All right,” Aziraphale said a moment later, voice tight and the cup nowhere to be seen. “I’m going to fly us to the nearest hospital, and you just hang in there, okay?” Crowley dimly registered that Aziraphale’s hand was back on his cheek, its presence reassuring beyond words. The water on his chin was gone too, but he had no memory of Aziraphale wiping it away.

After a few long seconds, Crowley grunted in assent. He registered that Aziraphale was now half-sitting next to him, one arm around his shoulders and the other near his knees.

“This is going to hurt quite a lot,” Aziraphale said, voice pained. “I’m so sorry, my dear.” He planted another kiss on Crowley’s cheek, this one longer. “I love you so much.”

Then Aziraphale pulled Crowley into his arms, the motion tearing along every nerve in Crowley’s body, and he felt consciousness flee him.

 

~~***~~

 

Aziraphale adjusted his grip on Crowley’s slack form and heaved him a bit higher in his arms, one arm around Crowley’s shoulders and the other under his knees. He was forcibly reminded of the last time he had carried an unconscious Crowley like this, right after one of Crowley’s wings had been broken during Aziraphale’s rescue of him from the hands of Heaven, so very long ago.

When Aziraphale was certain he had a good grip, Crowley heavy but lax in his arms, he strode out of Eden. A nod back in the direction of the pillow propped up by the tree vanished it, and then he came to a stop beside the rock serving as the Eastern Gate. He leaned Crowley’s torso further against his shoulder and started awkwardly tugging the sword from the stone with his newly freed hand, loath to set Crowley down again unless he absolutely had to.

Crowley had been in such a poor state by the time Aziraphale had reached him, eyes bright with fever and strength clearly expended, that it was frankly a miracle he’d stayed conscious as long as he had. The sutures had been an unexpected godsend; despite their haphazard appearance, they might very well have been the only thing preventing Crowley from bleeding out. They also must have hurt like hell being put in, with no anaesthesia to hand. Aziraphale would have miracled some up now for Crowley, who was clearly still in a great deal of pain—even a low-grade human painkiller like ibuprofen would have been better than nothing—but chemical compounds were notoriously tricky to conjure, and he didn’t want to accidentally poison his partner. It was better that they seek whatever professional help humanity could provide.

Aziraphale succeeded in awkwardly working the sword from the stone and the gate swept closed behind him, leaving only the tawny Iranian landscape. Though the sword refused his first few attempts to miracle it into the scabbard he had conjured for it, it complied on the fourth attempt, sheathing itself against his hip.

Next, Aziraphale turned so he was facing southwest, in the direction of Tabriz and the Imam Reza Hospital. During his hasty flight here, passing over much of the desert in near-complete darkness, he had taken the time to dig out the mobile Crowley had bought him and search for nearby hospitals, suspecting Crowley might need one. He was glad now to have taken the time, because he didn’t want to delay any longer than he absolutely had to.

He adjusted his grip on Crowley one last time, making sure that his partner’s head was tilted safely against his upper arm. Then he spread one of Crowley’s three pairs of wings, keeping the other two tucked away, strode forward, and pushed himself into the air.

He had to pump his wings hard for several minutes to get them high enough for short glides, their combined weight pulling them down. But Aziraphale kept at it, feeling fresh sweat break out over his skin as he forced them higher into the sky.

When they were a sufficient distance above the ground, Aziraphale began alternating long glides and climbing strokes, conscious of the distance to the hospital and his desire to keep Crowley as still as possible. His arms started to cramp up, Crowley’s weight dragging on his shoulders, but Aziraphale refused to budge an inch, keeping Crowley pressed securely against his chest. He forced his wings to pump harder, going as fast as he safely could.

After some time, he felt Crowley stir against him, his hand twitching against his bandaged abdomen.

Aziraphale watched him worriedly, dropping into a long glide as Crowley’s head turned towards him, pressing his nose into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“My dear?”

Crowley’s hand shifted again, inching laboriously closer to Aziraphale’s chest. When his fingers finally reached it, they wrapped themselves around a fold of fabric in Aziraphale’s shirt.

Aziraphale watched him worriedly as he pushed them higher again, his borrowed white wings reflecting the dazzling rays of the sun as they climbed higher into the sky.

Crowley made a noise deep in his throat that might have been a moan of pain, and then he started shivering, pressing his nose further into Aziraphale’s shoulder. He was still burning up, Aziraphale felt, the situation only exacerbated by the warmth of the dry desert air. Crowley muttered something incomprehensible, shifting uncomfortably.

“I’ve got you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, in case it helped, and after a few moments Crowley appeared to drift off again, chest rising and falling in short, unnatural bursts. Aziraphale reached inside of himself for the piece of Crowley nestled within his own soul, and was relieved to find that it didn’t seem to be deteriorating quite as quickly as it had been before. As Aziraphale had flown towards Eden across the desert, pushing his borrowed wings to carry him as quickly as physically possible, he had felt Crowley’s light in his chest growing steadily dimmer. He had been gripped by the fear that it might, at any moment, simply blink out entirely, as it had once before.

Crowley shifted in Aziraphale’s arms a few more times over the next twenty minutes, breaths short and harsh and fingers wrapping themselves more tightly around the fold of Aziraphale’s shirt, shivers increasing in intensity.

Despite the signs that the fever was worsening, as they flew over a particularly wide valley Aziraphale began to let himself think that Crowley might really be all right after all. Surely the infection hadn’t had _that_ long to spread, and the wound hadn’t been _that_ deep? His mind went worriedly to Crowley, sitting there _waiting_ for him in Eden, and knew that, if anything ill came of this—if the infection became a prolonged problem, or if the wound simply refused to heal properly—it would be his fault. But human medicine these days was so much better than it had ever been before, and surely they would be able to help Crowley.

Aziraphale continued steadily towards Tabriz, ignoring the growing ache in his borrowed wings, which had been pushed much too hard in the last twelve hours. The sun had moved higher in the sky, and he was beginning to seriously overheat, sweat beading on his skin and forcing him to rasp in long breaths, Crowley’s pain still very palpable to him, pressing against his own side.

When he reckoned they were about halfway there, wings straining and feeling like he might faint from the heat, Aziraphale scanned the ground beneath them for a secluded spot to land. It wasn’t hard, and he allowed them to quickly lose altitude, flaring his wings out to slow their descent as they approached the ground. He picked out a flat-looking stretch of rock dotted with some kind of heather not too far ahead and aimed for it, flaring his wings back even further until he was able to step down onto the rock with only a slight lurch, Crowley’s weight throwing him forward. He caught himself and just sucked in breaths for a moment, letting his exhausted wings sink towards the ground. He tucked them away and manifested another of Crowley’s three sets, this one still tired from his earlier flight but fresh enough to be able to take them the rest of the way to the hospital. He looked down at Crowley and shook him very gently.

“Crowley?”

Crowley remained motionless, fingers slack on Aziraphale’s shirt. “…Crowley?”

It was then that he realised that Crowley had stopped shivering. A wave of panic crashed over Aziraphale and he quickly dropped to his knees, setting Crowley on the rocky ground as gently as he could and putting a hand on his partner’s neck while simultaneously searching for the light in his chest. Crowley’s skin was burning with heat under his touch, though the dry air had evaporated most of the sweat from his skin. Aziraphale found a pulse, unnaturally rapid, about the same time that he found the light in his chest, much dimmer than it had been earlier but still there, burning quietly. It occurred to Aziraphale quite suddenly that if Crowley continued deteriorating at this new rate, he might not even make it to the hospital.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked fearfully, shaking his husband’s shoulder and wishing he would just sit up and tell him he was okay. Tears pricked at Aziraphale’s eyes, and he was suddenly terrified of losing Crowley all over again, the fear taking his breath away.

He moved his hand to Crowley’s cheek and caressed his skin, so very hot under his touch, his complexion frighteningly pale except for a flush of red across his cheeks. He was breathing, but very shallowly and far too quickly, chest barely moving.

 _The fever’s too high_ , Aziraphale realised, worriedly moving his hand up to Crowley’s forehead. It was only then that he remembered how hot _he_ was, and realised that perhaps it had been more than the exertion and desert sun making him overheat.

Aziraphale wrapped his mind around all of the air within three metres of himself and banished the warmth from it, not stopping until it had dipped below room temperature. He raised his wings next, angling them upwards until a large shadow fell across Crowley, casting him in shade.

He miracled a wet cloth into his hand, taking care to keep the water soaking it cool. He ran it across Crowley’s forehead and down his cheeks and neck, hoping to wick the excess warmth from his skin.

Aziraphale briefly rested a hand on Crowley’s chest, and when it burned as well he set the cloth down and set about pulling Crowley’s jacket off of him, wincing and apologising uselessly at every tug. When he had freed it, he bundled it up unceremoniously and shoved it under Crowley’s head.

Next, he unbuttoned Crowley’s shirt, realising with trepidation that it was soaked through with sweat. It clung to the bandage around Crowley’s abdomen as Aziraphale peeled it away, letting the breeze get at Crowley’s core. He picked up the cloth again and began wiping Crowley’s chest down with it, picking up plenty of blood and sweat as he went. He was hesitant to wet the wound again, remembering Crowley’s reaction the last time, so he stayed above the bottom of Crowley’s sternum, hoping the water would absorb some of the heat.

He had miracled the cloth clean and was wiping down Crowley’s face again, exquisitely aware of the heat still rolling off of his partner, when Crowley turned his head slightly, pressing his cheek into the cool cloth.

“Crowley? My dear? Can you hear me?”

There was no response, and after a moment Aziraphale resumed worriedly wiping him down. When he had finished, he rolled Crowley’s sleeves up and even ran the cloth over his forearms, hoping that every little bit would help. He was seriously considering pulling Crowley’s trousers off, or at least rolling the legs up, when Crowley stirred again, hand flexing in his as Aziraphale finished running the cloth over the underside of his left forearm.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked again, setting the cloth down and squeezing Crowley’s hand.

Crowley’s hand twitched in his again, fingers closing around the back of his hand. Then his head turned to one side and he rasped in another breath, this one a little deeper than the others.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale leaned over his partner worriedly, moving the hand not holding Crowley’s to the side of his face, wet now but much cooler. Maybe it was Aziraphale’s presence, or his fear, or just the fever going down, because Crowley grew restless, head turning the other way and hand reaching for something, fingers flexing against Aziraphale’s hand and eyes beginning to flicker open.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked yet again, worriedly squeezing his partner’s questing hand and holding it fast against his chest.

Crowley seemed to come to a little more, rasping in an uneven breath and focussing very slowly on Aziraphale’s face, serpentine eyes foggy with confusion. “A—Angel?” His voice was so incredibly weak.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said in relief, clinging more tightly to Crowley’s hand. He quickly let go of Crowley’s cheek so he could fetch the cloth again, running it distractedly over his partner’s forehead. “Yes, it’s me.”

Crowley made a noise deep in his throat, something like affirmation, and started to drift under again, eyelids sinking closed.

“Wait,” Aziraphale said urgently, redoubling his grip on Crowley’s hand and struck by the sudden worry that this might be the last time he would be able to rouse his partner. “Crowley? Crowley, please.”

He set the cloth down and switched to gently shaking Crowley’s shoulder. He managed to bring him back around, Crowley’s eyes reluctantly opening again as he dragged in another laboured breath.

“I—I need you to stay with me, you understand?” Aziraphale said worriedly, leaning close and clutching Crowley’s hand. “No matter what. Stay with me.”

Crowley took a moment to process Aziraphale’s words, golden eyes still bright with fever, but in the end he nodded groggily. He looked barely conscious, like he was clinging to the last shred of strength he possessed.

“Stay with me,” Aziraphale repeated, terrified that Crowley would fade away without him. “You remember home, right? The two of us in the cottage?”

Again, there was a long pause before Crowley nodded groggily. He tried to shift on the ground, clearly uncomfortable, and Aziraphale watched him nearly black out, his hand growing briefly slack in Aziraphale’s and then redoubling its grip as Crowley dragged himself back to consciousness by what appeared to be sheer force of will.

Aziraphale felt a tear run down his nose at the sight of Crowley fighting so hard and knowing that he had to ask him to fight even harder.

“We were so happy,” Aziraphale said, voice shaking. “The two of us there. Just stay with me, and we can be like that again, I promise.” Aziraphale moved one of his hands back to the side of Crowley’s face, managing to make eye contact with what seemed like a huge effort on Crowley’s part. “Can you do that for me?”

Crowley’s eyes clouded over, and he gave the faintest of nods, looking almost on the verge of tears.

“Just stay with me,” Aziraphale repeated, redoubling his grip on Crowley. “Please. I love you so—so much.”

Crowley made a noise deep in his throat, a sort of pained agreement.

Aziraphale felt more tears trail down his cheeks. “You are so brave,” he told him, and leaned down to give Crowley a long, firm kiss on the forehead. “My brave, beautiful dear.”

He thought Crowley might have made another noise, but when Aziraphale pulled away Crowley’s eyes had slunk closed again, chest wavering.

Aziraphale didn’t bother wiping away his own tears, only gave Crowley one more pass with the cloth and then fumbled to rebutton Crowley’s shirt before giving up halfway through. He transferred Crowley’s jacket to his arm to act as a pillow and carefully bundled his partner back into his arms, doing his best to ignore the whimper that escaped Crowley’s lips.

And then Aziraphale started towards the edge of the rock, spread his wings wide, and pushed off.


	18. Til Death Do We Part

“It’s just up here, I’m sure,” said Alexander, who had taken the lead from Ludwig.

Donnie swept her gaze across her surroundings as they passed through yet another invisible door and into what looked like a 1920s New York City flat, skyscrapers visible beyond the windows. A man was snoozing on a nearby sofa, a grey fedora over his face.

Alexander pulled open another door and they strode into a very familiar sitting room. “Aha!”

The five of them came to a stop, a wave of shivers passing over Donnie as she looked around herself in shock, all thoughts of getting some rest for her sore knees forgotten. Music was playing quietly from somewhere nearby.

“Anyone home?” the man in the suit—Harry, as he had later introduced himself—called, striding across the sitting room and towards the doorway leading to the kitchen. “Oh, hello,” he said, coming to a stop by the doorway as he evidently found the inhabitant of the heaven.

“I—oh, I remember you!” said a female voice, and a moment later the music abruptly ceased. “Is something the matter?”

“I—I shouldn’t be here,” Donnie said, taking a step backwards. She glanced over her shoulder but the doorway to the New York City flat had vanished.

Ludwig gave her a strange look.

“We’ve got someone with us who might want to stay with you for just a little while,” Harry’s voice continued. “She’s also from Midfarthing—”

Donnie reached for the invisible door but couldn’t seem to find it, hands clutching at thin air.

“Are you all right?” Ludwig asked.

“N—no,” Donnie stammered, and then she heard the inhabitant of the heaven walk into the sitting room, and she knew it was too late.

She turned slowly, expression stricken, and came face-to-face with a beautiful young woman she’d thought she’d never see again.

“Hi,” the woman said, stepping forward and holding out her hand. “I’m Ann Marley.”

Donnie drew a shaking breath, staring at the inhabitant of the heaven in disbelief. “I—I know who you are.”

A puzzled expression crossed Ann’s face, but her hand remained extended.

“Wait a minute,” Harry said, looking at Donnie. “Didn’t you say your name was—”

“Donnie,” Donnie said, forcing her wobbly legs into motion and hesitantly shaking Ann’s hand. “…Marley.”

Ann’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. She really was beautiful, as beautiful as Donnie remembered and as beautiful as Bert always said.

“I—I’m so sorry,” Donnie said, voice wavering. “I married your husband.”

There was a moment of silence in which Alexander shuffled his feet awkwardly and one of the others coughed.

“…pardon?” Ann asked at last, a confused smile on her face.

“Bert,” Donnie said helplessly. “I married him. I’m so sorry.”

Ann’s eyes slid from Donnie to the men behind her, looking for answers.

“You died over thirty years ago,” Donnie explained, feeling rotten. “I—I think I just died today. But I—I married Bert six years ago.”

Ann’s eyes moved back to Donnie, astonishment scrawled across her features. “I—I think you should sit down.” She gestured to the sofa, but her eyes remained on Donnie, searching her face.

Donnie averted her eyes and did as she was bid, glancing back at the four temporally challenged men in the hopes that one of them might rescue her. They didn’t look like they had any plans to, instead all intently studying various parts of the decor and ceiling.

“You—you’ve seen Bert recently, then?” Ann asked as she perched on the edge of the sofa. “How is he?” Her eyes continued to search Donnie’s face, and Donnie looked away.

“He’s—he’s fine.”

“And he—he and you—?” Ann didn’t have to finish the thought.

“He mourned you for _years_ ,” Donnie said quickly. “ _Decades_. He was heartbroken. He really did love you, you know.”

Ann nodded, gaze moving to her lap, where she had folded her hands.

“He never looked at anyone else,” Donnie continued nervously. “Honestly. But he was trying to move on, trying to make peace with it, and it had been so long, and he and I just—we just sort of found each other—”

Ann raised a hand and Donnie broke off, expecting some sort of condemnation.

“Please, I—I know I died young,” Ann said, looking at something on the carpet. “I’m not upset that he remarried.” She looked up at Donnie then, and Donnie saw the wetness in her eyes. “I never expected him to mourn me forever. I just—I just want to know that he’s all right. Is he all right? Is he happy?”

Donnie blinked at Ann, suddenly feeling tears of her own. “Yes…yes, I think so. He wasn’t, for so long…but I think so.”

Ann nodded, and when the first tears ran down her cheeks she hastily wiped them away. “I remember you,” she said with a small laugh. “From Midfarthing. Your garden always had the most wonderful flowers.”

Donnie nodded.

“Weren’t you married to that—what was he? An insurance salesman?”

Donnie made a noise of agreement. “Fabian. He was an arse. I divorced him.”

Ann nodded, busily wiping away the tears from her other cheek. “Always seemed like a bit of a prick to me.”

Donnie nodded, feeling her own tears threatening to spill over. She had never expected such an understanding response. Then again, Bert had always said Ann was the kindest person he knew.

“Did he—did he ever leave Midfarthing?” Ann asked, voice trembling slightly. “He loved that village, but he always wanted to try somewhere new.”

Donnie shook her head. “He’s still there. He—he took up bartending, actually, at the pub. Said he wanted to help people but didn’t have any fancy degrees.”

Ann gave a choked laugh, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

“He always wants to help people,” Donnie confessed. “He says he got that from you.”

“That’s such a lie!” Ann protested, sniffling. “He was so kind, himself. He just never wanted to admit it.”

Donnie nodded, a smile pushing at her tear-stained cheeks.

Ann sniffled and pawed at her eyes some more. “Does he—does he still have that beard?”

“No, not anymore,” Donnie said. “He gave up on it after you—er.”

Now, Ann looked stricken. “No, really? That was a great beard. He loved it so much.”

Donnie opened her mouth to ask what Bert had been like when Ann had known him, but before she was able to she felt a buzzing in her coat pocket. She froze in surprise and cautiously reached into her pocket, incredulous that her mobile would still work in Heaven. But she pulled it free from the folds of fabric and there it was, looking perfectly normal as it buzzed with an incoming call. Ann looked at it askance.

Donnie focussed on the screen and felt herself stop breathing when she read the caller ID. She hit ‘accept call’ and put the phone to her ear, hand shaking. “H—hello?”

“Donnie,” Bert’s voice said, wonderfully rich and slightly worried. “Honey, I just, I was thinking about our anniversary and wanted to apologise again—”

Donnie felt a tear roll down her cheek as she looked at Ann. “B—Bert,” she said, voice trembling. “Hold on a mo. There’s—there’s someone here you should talk to.” She held the phone out to Ann.

Ann stared at it for a moment and then carefully accepted it, casting a slightly uncertain glance at Donnie as she put the phone to her ear as she’d seen Donnie do.

“…Bert?” Ann asked, voice warbling and disbelieving.

There was a long silence in which Donnie just looked at Ann, wondering if this was the end of the best thing that had happened to her in a long time.

“Y—yes, it’s me,” Ann said into Donnie’s mobile, looking on the verge of tears again. “How are you, sweetie?”

There was another silence and Ann sat forward, putting her elbows on her knees and smiling through the tears. “I’m in Heaven, Bert. Yeah.”

Donnie realised that this was a conversation she probably shouldn’t listen in on and stood, turning away from Ann and trying to hide the fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. She walked back over to where the four men who’d brought her here were trying to make themselves disappear into the wallpaper.

“Look, I’m sorry about this,” Ludwig said as she crossed to them, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “If I’d known—”

“It’s all right,” Donnie said, pawing her tears away stiffly with the end of her sleeve. “Bert loves me, but he loves her so much more. I just never thought it would be a competition. But I guess, since I’m dead now…” She shrugged. The thought of spending eternity with Fabian was particularly repulsive, and she just hoped she could find a nice place to stay with her cats.

Ludwig hovered awkwardly. “It’ll be okay,” he offered.

“We—we should go,” Donnie said, sniffling. “Might as well take me to the Judgment. At least he’ll have someone waiting for him in Heaven.”

“But didn’t she take your—your—” Alexander motioned vaguely in the direction of Donnie’s mobile, still pressed to Ann’s ear.

“She can keep it,” Donnie said. “Let’s go.”

Harry had opened the invisible door, one leg already in the New York City flat, when Ann’s voice stopped them.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

The five of them turned slowly, every expression indicating that they would much rather be on their way.

“Bert says he’s in Heaven too,” Ann said eagerly, stepping forward and holding Donnie’s mobile back out to her.

Donnie lost a breath, staring at Ann. “Wh—what? He—he’s dead too?”

“He says he’s alive,” Ann said, still holding Donnie’s mobile out to her, eyes bright despite the tears glistening on her cheeks. “He says he’s on his way.”

Donnie cautiously stepped forward and took her mobile from Ann. “Thanks. We’ll just be on our way, then.”

“No,” Ann said quickly, stepping forward and laying a hand on Donnie’s arm. “He wants to see you too.”

The four men looked at Donnie, waiting for a cue, Harry’s foot still in another world.

“Are—are you sure about that?” Donnie asked, not able to meet Ann’s eyes and knowing that she paled in comparison in every way with the love of Bert’s life.

“He was quite adamant,” Ann said, hand still on Donnie’s arm.

Donnie dragged her gaze up, meeting the other woman’s eyes. “Are _you_ sure about that?”

Ann only blinked at her, an incredibly kind smile spreading across her face. “Of course. Please stay.”

Donnie frowned at Ann, wishing the offer was genuine but mistrusting it. “You had him first, and I—I can respect that.”

“And you had him most recently,” Ann said reasonably. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Come, sit down.”

 

~~***~~

 

Crowley had been passing into and out of consciousness in Aziraphale’s arms as he flew them across Tabriz, nearing Imam Reza Hospital. The light in Aziraphale’s chest had grown a little brighter following his attempt to bring Crowley’s fever down, and Aziraphale did his best to keep it down, gusting as many breezes past Crowley as he could without disrupting his flight. He even occasionally paused in a hover long enough to miracle cool water over Crowley’s face and chest, wicking it away with a breeze a few moments later and hopefully taking some of the excess heat with it.

Crowley, in return, moaned and mumbled feverishly into Aziraphale’s shoulder, fingers clinging to Aziraphale’s shirt again. He was still very weak, and Aziraphale knew the infection would only spread, but he seemed to have stabilised for the moment.

Aziraphale was very grateful for this as he flew low over the flat-roofed buildings of Tabriz, cloaking them both in a spell to render them invisible. He could see the hospital up ahead, a compact tan building with angled corners.

He flew lower, flashing between buildings and gliding above the traffic in the street below, looking for informational signs. He found one directing them to the emergency entrance, reading the Arabic script effortlessly, and followed it, Crowley growing restless in his arms as the sounds of the city surrounded them.

“Almost there,” Aziraphale told him, hugging Crowley a little closer as he followed another sign and sped past a car park, spying the red doors to the emergency department.

Aziraphale threw his wings back, ignoring their protest as he flared them out to slow his speed. He stroked them forwards a few times to slow him further and then dropped down heavily onto the pavement, Crowley lurching in his arms.

Crowley groaned and Aziraphale felt his grip on his shirt tighten.

“Sorry. We—we’re here,” Aziraphale said, a little lightheaded with relief, and started for the doors. As he neared them, he tucked Crowley’s exhausted but wonderfully reliable wings away and let the spell rendering them invisible fade, first at the front and then the back, so that those within the building would see them enter normally while those without wouldn’t see them at all. While he was at it, he rendered the Edenic sword at his side invisible.

The motion-sensitive doors swept open at Aziraphale’s approach and he strode inside, the abrupt coldness of the air-conditioned interior hitting him like a wall. Rows of metal benches scattered with worried-looking people sat directly in front of him, but there, just to the left, under a large set of Arabic and Roman letters reading ‘Emergency’ in two languages, was a reception desk.

One of the receptionists looked up quickly as Aziraphale approached with Crowley clutched in his arms, unconscious, pale, slightly wet, and bandaged.

“What happened?” the receptionist asked in Farsi as Aziraphale reached them.

“There’s a—a gash,” Aziraphale replied in the same language, and he was suddenly transported to another reception desk with another nurse. The serpentine Crowley wrapped around his neck then had been in just as poor of shape as the Crowley in his arms now, his life winding down. That’s when he had died, Aziraphale remembered with an unpleasant lurch. He had delivered Crowley into the hands of the professionals and left to try to find a workaround solution, and Crowley had died there, at the veterinarian's clinic, alone.

In his arms now, Crowley whimpered and seemed to rouse a bit more, fingers tightening on Aziraphale shirt.

“It—ah—it’s infected,” Aziraphale stammered, struggling to tear his mind from the memory. “I—I tried to keep the fever down—”

“This way,” another nurse said from beside him, and Aziraphale automatically started after her, arms aching but unable to process the idea of putting Crowley down.

The nurse led him through a set of double doors into a long hallway, rolling beds lined up on one side.

“Here,” the nurse said, stopping at one of the beds and grabbing at something on the drip stand near the head of the bed.

Aziraphale lurched to a stop but couldn’t bring himself to do anything else, paralyzed at the idea of leaving Crowley to die again. Crowley seemed to be of the same mind, pressing his nose against Aziraphale’s shoulder as tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Put him down,” the nurse said, a bit more sharply, and looked pointedly at the bed.

Aziraphale stared at the bed in trepidation, but he hadn’t come all this way to let Crowley die of an untreated infection. He moved forward and leaned over the bed, letting Crowley sink onto the uncomfortable-looking mattress as gently as he could. Crowley’s suit jacket fell from where Aziraphale had had it bundled up under Crowley’s head, and Aziraphale shoved it under his arm for safekeeping.

“N—no,” Crowley moaned, resisting their parting and grabbing onto Aziraphale’s arm, fingers weak and eyelids fluttering.

“What’s his name?” the nurse asked.

“C—Crowley,” Aziraphale stammered, taking his husband’s hand in both of his and swearing that he would see him again.

“Go back to the receptionist. She needs his details,” the nurse directed, grabbing a clipboard and fixing her eyes on her watch.

Aziraphale tried returning Crowley’s hand to his side but Crowley only redoubled his grip, his eyes forcing themselves further open, brilliant gold irises glazed with fever.

“Z—Zira,” Crowley rasped fearfully, the desperation in his voice plain. “Need—need to—”

“You’ll be okay,” Aziraphale assured him quickly, trying to work his hand free from Crowley’s and hating himself.

“…stay,” Crowley moaned. “Need to—stay—with—”

Aziraphale’s sinuses started to burn as, despite Crowley’s best efforts to cling to his hand, Aziraphale disentangled himself. “I—I’ll be right there with you,” he lied, voice shaking.

“Go back,” the nurse reminded Aziraphale, and she quickly started wheeling Crowley down the hallway, scribbling something on the clipboard as she went.

Aziraphale could hear Crowley calling out for him again as she whisked him away, the truncated attempt at his name breaking off in a sob.

It took a great deal of willpower for Aziraphale to turn and walk back through the doors to the reception lobby, shaking a little and praying to any God who would listen that Crowley would pull through.

He realised distractedly that Crowley’s jacket was still under his arm, and he hugged it to his chest. It was damp with water in places, and smelled strongly of blood and sweat, but it was Crowley’s. Aziraphale wound his fingers into the folds of the material and told himself that it was just a matter of time before he would be able to give it back in person.

 

~~***~~

 

“I don’t think they’re here,” Mara said, scanning the crowd of people around them, many of whom were looking around themselves in wonder. There seemed to be people from all walks of life, but she couldn’t see any children—indeed, anyone younger than a teenager.

“No,” Beth agreed, eyes tracking through the crowd as well.

“Well, what did that angel say? If someone had found them, they’d be taken to Azrael _or_ Jophiel. If this is where Azrael is, then how about we try to find this Jophiel person?”

“I’m not so certain we even reached Azrael,” Beth admitted, making her way to the edge of the crowd and moving her gaze to a cluster of three tents perched atop a nearby hill. They were square tents of the variety one might imagine in an Edwardian painting of a medieval joust, complete with long, triangle-shaped pennants snapping in the breeze. Each was slightly off-white, and the broad vertical stripes running up and down the tents’ sides were a shimmering gold. Angels flitted back and forth between them, white wings reflecting the light.

“Why’s that?” Mara asked, abandoning the search and joining Beth in looking up at the tents.

“I’ve heard about Azrael’s domain,” Beth said, “and it’s not full of makeshift tents.” She frowned up at the hill. “I think we need a better idea of what’s happening. And…”

Beth pointed to where a copper-skinned figure with two sets of white wings had just landed beside the tents. She was already beginning to stride towards the central one confidently, wings folding behind her.

“…I bet you anything _that’s_ Azrael.” Beth glanced conspiratorially at Mara. “Let’s go find out what she’s up to.”

Before Mara could protest, Beth had started up the hill.

“Oi, wait!” Mara hissed, hurrying after Beth and glancing around for any angelic guards. No one seemed to be paying them any mind, though, and they only had to duck around one tree to avoid being seen by one of the angels exiting the nearest tent.

Beth led the way around the rear of the first tent, white and gold pennants snapping in the breeze above them. She paused near the far edge, peered quickly around the corner, and sprinted to the space behind the middle tent, this one the largest of the three. Mara did the same, making sure the coast was clear before flitting across the gap between the adjacent tents.

Beth raised a finger to her lips as she stopped directly behind the middle tent, flicking her eyes meaningfully to the tent’s canvas wall. Mara came to a stop beside her and they both listened, craning their heads closer to the tent as voices floated to them through the relatively thin material.

“—accommodate them any better?” That was a female voice, strong and clear. Mara guessed it might belong to Azrael.

“They have plenty of grass,” another voice said, this one male, “and company. Should I move them nearer to the trees? Do they need shade?”

The female voice sighed. “Jerahmiel, they are people, not sheep. They don’t need _trees_.”

“I am open to suggestions,” the male voice, evidently belonging to Jerahmiel, said, apparently completely serious. “ _You_ are the one with the expertise. This isn’t my area.”

“Yes, I am aware. We’re constructing the new heavens as quickly as possible, but are very near capacity. It will take some time to accommodate everyone. I just need you to keep an eye on the Redeemed ones in the meantime. Make sure they are looked after and don’t, say, _wander off_.”

Behind the tent, Mara and Beth exchanged a glance.

“I—uh,” Jerahmiel said.

“Ludwig II, Alexander Hamilton, and Harry Houdini have abandoned their posts and given their overseers the slip. The heaven of Marcus Salvius Otho is empty. They have…dare I say it? Banded together again.” She did not sound amused.

“Oh. Um.”

“They were spotted sprinting cross-country with another soul, a woman who apparently escaped from under _your_ nose. Should you care to count the souls in your care occasionally, you would find that they are one short.”

“But…why would anyone leave?” Jerahmiel asked, sounding bemused. “This is Heaven. They are being looked after. They have been rescued from the Pit, and only those truly Redeemed were selected. There is no sense in running off.”

“There is no sense in a king, an emperor, a revolutionary, and a stage magician befriending each other and wreaking havoc across my domain either, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. You need better security.”

There was a faint grumble. “I’m not Jophiel.”

Mara caught Beth’s eye and mouthed ‘Jophiel’; the other woman nodded and they resumed listening.

“And it’s a good thing, too,” the female voice continued. “He’d have them in cells and chains, the arrogant prick. He’d rather glower at everyone than admit that Redemption is real. Which is why I chose _you_ to help me. And I know you’re more used to looking after cattle and watching flowers bloom, but _please_ , take some care with the humans who inhabit that Earth you love so much.”

“…okay,” Jerahmiel said, sounding very much like he’d been put in his place.

“Good. Do try not to scare the living daylights out of the poor things—they are still righteous souls in our care, don’t forget—but for the love of our Father _please_ post a guard or two.”

“Yes, Azrael.”

“One more thing,” Azrael said. “One of the souls from the newest group of arrivals recognised the description of the woman seen with Ludwig’s band of troublemakers; she had given her name as Donnie. Please keep an eye out in case she should return.”

“Of course.”

Mara motioned urgently at Beth as the sounds in the tent fell silent.

“What?” Beth hissed in an undertone.

“That name,” Mara whispered quickly, keeping her voice low. “Donnie—do you reckon—?”

Beth blinked at her. “What? Who?”

“Donnie—Donna Su—Marley now. She lives in Midfarthing.”

Beth blinked at her again. “I don’t—”

“She’s a friend of mine,” Mara explained quickly, voice growing worried. “But what if she found the portal, too? Went through it after us? That would explain why she ran from the others.”

“I’m sure there are loads of people named Donnie,” Beth tried.

Mara was already digging out her mobile. “Not many women, and it’s too big of a coincidence otherwise. Look, I’m going to phone her quick, and if she’s fine at home, then, sure, it was someone else.”

Beth looked around them worriedly and gestured for them to move further from the tents, walking down the slope and up the next and pausing in the valley beyond it.

“It’ll just take a mo,” Mara assured her, scrolling to Donnie’s name in her contacts and hitting the call button. She put the phone to her ear.

It rang three times and someone picked up.

“Uh, hello, Mara,” Donnie’s voice said. “Now’s not really a good time.”

“No?”

“Er, not really.”

“Can I swing by later, then? I found a new knitting pattern and I’m a bit confused but I’m sure you could help me out.”

“I—um—I don’t know if I…uh…” She sounded distracted.

Mara shot Beth a triumphant look. “Okay, Donnie, listen to me. Are you currently in a place with super green grass and far too much white stone?”

There was a very long pause and for a moment Mara thought she’d wagered wrong. Then Donnie said in an undertone, “Where are _you?”_

“So you _are_ there?” Mara confirmed.

“I—um—yes.”

Mara let out a breath. “Okay, great. We are too. I understand it’s called ‘Heaven.’”

“Dear _Lord_ , you’re here too?” Donnie asked in horror. “What _happened?_ Did England get blown off the map?”

Mara frowned. “What?”

“Bert’s here too. How did we all die at once?”

“Oh, I’m not—” Mara began, and then switched tacks. “Wait, _Bert’s_ here _too?”_

 _Bert?_ mouthed Beth at her.

Mara waved her away. “Where are you, exactly? We’re…” she looked around herself. “…um.”

“In the heavens,” Donnie’s voice supplied. “With some…eccentric gentlemen. We’re waiting for Bert to get here. And…oh, you wouldn’t believe who I just met.”

“Listen, we’re looking for Henry,” Mara told her. “Little Henry Ambrose. And Beth is here, she’s from out of the area, her two children went missing too and we think they’re around here somewhere. Have you seen them?”

“Oh no, not them too,” Donnie said, sounding aghast. “I haven’t seen them, no.”

Mara glanced at Beth, who was waiting expectantly.

“But I’ll help!” Donnie continued quickly. “We’re just waiting for Bert to get here, and then I can help you look. These four gentlemen seem very good at finding people.”

“Great,” Mara said, motioning Beth closer and holding the phone a little further away from her ear so Beth could listen in. “Here, how about we meet you? We can pool our resources.”

“Okay,” Donnie agreed. “So, the first thing you need to do is find this elaborate-looking gate—”


	19. Sweet Pea

Oswald Osbert Osprey took a liberal swig of the stale-tasting coffee in the quivering cup in his hand, trying to convince himself not to make a detour to the flask stowed away in his inner jacket pocket.

He had been trembling on and off ever since he had hit that poor man with his car and delivered him to that accursed square in Birmingham. He was still waiting for the police to catch up with him, waiting for the handcuffs to click around his wrists like he had snapped that pair around the wrists of the bloodied young man he’d subsequently heaved into the boot of his car. He had made a token effort to clean the blood from his car’s boot, but he knew that the forensics team would be able to find traces anyway. He even still had the poor man’s mobile in his car. He’d had the presence of mind to turn it off when he’d taken it from the man’s pocket, but perhaps the police could track it anyway.

He’d decided that he’d come quietly, when they came for him. He was growing old, and perhaps he had had some sort of mental break. Surely that burning creature that had appeared in his sitting room had been a regular old human being, perhaps supplementing their appearance with dried ice and cheap props.

 _And the earthquake?_ he asked himself.

 _They do it in films_ , Oswald answered himself, taking another sip of coffee, eyes darting nervously around the small, Indian-run cafe. It was a bit of a rundown place, the paint peeling from the walls and the chair Oswald was sitting on wobbling on uneven legs. _Or they drugged me._

He had been over the Bible again, flipping desperately through every section on divine or angelic revelation. Angels were present throughout the book, appearing to Moses, Daniel, Joseph, Mary Magdalene, and so many others. But though they came with tidings of news, to lend a helping hand to the righteous, or occasionally to personally smite the wicked, never, to Oswald’s knowledge, had God sent an angel to tell someone to hurt someone else.

He still remembered the way his car had lurched as it had contacted with the poor man, remembered seeing the blood and brandy splattered over the pavement. He didn’t even know the name of the man he had likely delivered to his death, had only been provided with a photograph and an address. He had had an opportunity, as he’d hauled the man’s slack body into his car’s boot, to locate his wallet and search for an ID, but he hadn’t had the nerve to do it. The last thing he needed was a name to scan the news headlines and obituaries for and to carry with him to his grave.

Oswald set down his nearly empty cup of coffee and rubbed at his closed eyes, fingers still shaking.

That’s how he was when he heard his cup start rattling in its saucer, just tiny little clacks, like marbles clicking together.

Oswald screwed his eyes further shut, telling himself that he was imagining things.

Then the rattles increased in volume, accompanied by alarmed voices.

Oswald looked up just in time to see a ball of light explode into being on the far side of the cafe, near the door.

“No,” he whispered, starting to stand and tripping over his chair, only barely keeping his balance. His eyes flitted fearfully around the cafe as the silhouette of a man with six wings appeared within the ball of light. The cafe’s other patrons were scattering, screaming and running back towards the rear of the cafe. Someone knocked over a table, and he heard the loud, panicked shouts of the staff in Hindi over the sounds of china shattering.

“OSWALD OSBERT OSPREY,” the golden light demanded, wings extending further and blocking the entrance to the cafe. Oswald stumbled backwards, past his chair, and bumped into another table.

The angel seemed to notice the chaos around itself, people diving for cover and knocking over tables and chairs in their haste to escape, many rushing past Oswald in search of an exit via the kitchen. Somewhere, a woman was screaming hysterically.

“QUIET,” the angel said irritably, and snapped its fingers. Every person in the cafe other than Oswald immediately collapsed, crumpling to the floor or over chairs as though they were puppets whose strings had been cut. There came the sound of a piece of ceramic shattering from somewhere behind Oswald, and then a deafening silence.

“OSWALD,” the angel continued, “I HAVE WORK FOR YOU.” It moved forward, rays of light emanating from somewhere behind itself and casting its front in deep shadow. But Oswald had seen it without the light, in that square in Birmingham, and knew that without it and its wings the angel looked almost human.

“I—I won’t do it,” Oswald stammered, working his way around the table and stumbling further backwards, hands blindly feeling behind himself for obstacles.

“YOU WILL,” the angel said as it moved closer, its light casting long shadows over the crumpled bodies of the cafe’s customers.

“N—no,” Oswald said, his heel bumping into something. He turned his course, moving sideways instead, feeling trapped.

“YOU ARE AN OLD MAN,” the angel told him in a voice thrumming with power, still striding closer. “YOU MUST HAVE CHILDREN. FAMILY.”

Oswald felt his heart skip a beat. “Wh—what?—you wouldn’t—”

“GRANDDAUGHTERS, PERHAPS?” the angel rumbled. “PRETTY LITTLE NIECES AND NEPHEWS? THEY WILL BE EASY TO FIND.”

“N—no,” Oswald stammered again, feeling his back ram into a bump-out in the wall. His mind fixed on his grandnieces, still so very young. He felt tears spring to his eyes.

“You—you are a demon!” Oswald cried. An idea sprang into his head and he crossed himself, but the creature in the ball of light seemed unaffected. He reached for the cross necklace around his neck next, the Greek one he always carried, and held it out, but it, too, had no effect.

“I AM AN ANGEL OF THE LORD,” the angel rumbled. “AS WE KILLED THE FIRSTBORNS OF EGYPT, AS WE BURNED SODOM AND GOMORRAH, SO TOO DO I HAVE WORK FOR YOU.”

“No,” Oswald whimpered, shaking his head and feeling tears begin to streak down his cheeks. He flattened himself as far back against the wall as he could and began to slide down it, legs giving out.

“I AM THE VOICE OF GOD,” the angel declared in a threatening voice, only a few metres away from him now. “I HAVE SEEN THE ABYSS, AND THAT IS WHERE YOU SHALL BURN ETERNALLY FOR YOUR IMPERTINENCE. DO NOT ANGER GOD, AND DO NOT TEST ME, MORTAL.”

Oswald could only shake his head, sliding all the way down the wall and into a sitting position, tears slick on his cheeks. He could not believe this was the will of God, not the God he had devoted his life to.

“THINK OF YOUR FAMILY. I CAN ARRANGE FOR THEM ALL TO PROMPTLY JOIN YOU IN HELL. I WOULD RELISH THE DUTY.”

Oswald squeezed his eyes shut, feeling more tears escape, chest heaving. There was a long silence and then Oswald forced his eyes open, looking up at the creature of light and knowing that, though he would gladly damn himself to the Fire for his convictions, he could never allow those he loved to be hurt.

It took him a moment to clear his throat, which had become clogged with tears. The angel looked down at him coldly, the light still radiating from it making it impossible to look at directly.

“Wh—what—what do you want me to do?”

 

~~***~~

 

Lucifer felt Beelzebub’s aura drawing near, gradually building in the periphery of his attention, a familiar, dependable presence that had been by his side since the Fall.

He waited patiently a few paces away from the door to the throne room, three sets of black wings folded neatly behind him, the obsidian columns of the hall faintly reflecting his figure.

At long last, he heard the sounds of footsteps outside the doors and one swung open.

“Back at last!” Lucifer said, forcing some cheer into his voice.

“Lucifer!” Beelzebub said, spying him so close by and visibly brightening. “Something incredible happened in Eden!”

“Come, tell me all about it,” Lucifer said, taking a step forward and holding out a hand in indication that Beelzebub should precede him further into the hall.

Beelzebub started forward as directed, but, just as he passed Lucifer, Lucifer reached out and grabbed his hand, dragging him closer. Beelzebub turned towards him, wings flaring out slightly to adjust his balance, a puzzled expression on his face, and that was when Lucifer slipped the Seal of Solomon onto his finger.

Beelzebub’s aura flagged immediately, dropping to nearly half its previous size and fading in intensity as he sucked in a surprised breath.

Lucifer took two quick steps backwards, putting some space between them. With a wave of his hand, the smooth black marble floor reached up and closed masses of stone around Beelzebub’s feet, trapping him. Beelzebub instinctively tried to take a step back and couldn’t, nearly falling as his wings hastily flared out to restore his balance.

“Wh—what?” Beelzebub’s eyes locked onto Lucifer. “What is this?” His eyes dropped to his hands, and Lucifer watched as he tried vainly to tear the signet ring from his finger.

“The Seal of Solomon,” Lucifer supplied, taking a few long, slow strides around Beelzebub, beginning to circle him. “It traps demons. I’d quite forgotten about it until it was unearthed while looking for the pair of handcuffs that _conveniently_ went missing right before you and Crowley left for Eden. I never thought I’d need to use such a relic, but clearly I was wrong.”

Beelzebub’s gaze flicked up to Lucifer, hands still trying to rid himself of the ring. “What are you implying? I’m not a traitor!”

Lucifer frowned as he continued to pace around him. “The evidence doesn’t support that.”

Beelzebub just stared at him, expression incredulous. Lucifer had the first, niggling feeling of doubt in the back of his head, but he knew that he was partial to believing Beelzebub, and he couldn’t let that cloud his judgment.

“You took the handcuffs,” Lucifer said. “You reneged on our deal with Crowley by first ensuring that his letter never reached Aziraphale and then stabbing him, and you destroyed the Tree of Life so that I might never have what I desire most. All presumably to deprive me of my throne in my moment of weakness; you never did agree with the surrender of Hell, did you?”

Beelzebub gaped at him, hands still on the Seal on his finger. _“What?_ Who told you that? That’s a bundle of liezz!”

Lucifer frowned at him.

“I—I _zzaved_ Crowley, and _the Metatron_ wazz the one who deztroyed the Tree of Life, and I—I have _done more for you_ —”

“Tell the _truth_ , Beelzebub,” Lucifer snapped, grinding to a halt. “You have been lying to me for some time now.”

Beelzebub glared at him. “I mozzt zzertainly have _not_.”

There came the sound of the door behind Lucifer opening slightly, and Lucifer gave Beelzebub one final glare before turning, intent on telling off whatever demon had dared enter his hall.

“Venus.” The voice was his own, but alien to Lucifer’s ears, having grown used to hearing it from his own lips. The face of the person standing before him was his own too, but younger and kinder, without all the marks of anger and stress and great sadness. He was wearing a beautiful black wedding dress, the sweeping layers of black lace overlapping in a loose scallop pattern. And there, clasped in hands hidden by elbow-length black gloves, was a bundle of lilies, the white blooms standing out starkly against the black fabric. And behind his shoulders, neatly folded, was a single set of _white_ wings, whiter than Lucifer could ever imagine his own becoming again. For a long moment Lucifer just stared at him, dumbfounded.

The apparition smiled at him, and Lucifer felt all of his anger at Beelzebub evaporate. Even if Beelzebub had betrayed him, even if he planned on taking the throne for himself…it was his. For Lucifer was staring straight at the one thing he had wanted for eternity, the one thing he had wanted since almost the very beginning.

“I—Ishtyr?” he asked, voice suddenly weak.

Ishtyr smiled at him, and it was somehow just like Lucifer remembered, though he had thought the memory had long since faded. “In the flesh.”

Lucifer took a few trembling steps forward, and almost didn’t register Beelzebub’s next words.

“Don’t get too close. Lucifer, wait!”

Ishtyr took a step back as Lucifer approached, and he reluctantly ground to a halt, wanting desperately to pull his oldest friend into a very uncharacteristic embrace but stopped by the urgency in Beelzebub’s voice.

“It is very good to see you,” Ishtyr said. “I did not think we would meet again. Unfortunately, my presence here has a price.”

A row of shivers ran down Lucifer’s spine, and he glanced quickly at Beelzebub. “What—what kind of price?”

“I am still Death,” Ishtyr said. “And, while the Tree of Life remains felled, I am death to any near me.”

Lucifer blinked at him. “What?”

“He kills everything he touches,” Beelzebub supplied. “So keep your distance.”

“See,” Ishtyr said, shifting the bundle of lilies to one of his gloved hands and separating a single stem. He held the bloom up to his cheek and it immediately withered, turning first brown and then a dark grey as it crumbled. Ishtyr turned his hand sadly, and the ashen pieces tumbled from his palm to the marble floor.

Lucifer eyed the remains of the lily for only a heartbeat before returning his gaze to his long-lost friend. Right before Ishtyr’s death, he and Lucifer had shared a corporation, and in that short time, still surprisingly sharp in Lucifer’s memory, he had come to know another creature as he knew himself, and as he had never known anyone else since. Losing Ishtyr had felt like losing part of himself, and that loss had spurred him to rebellion. Ishtyr had changed everything, because he had meant everything to Lucifer.

“I—I have—” Lucifer began, gazing at Ishtyr and unable to believe he was really here. “I wished to speak with you.”

“And speak we shall,” Ishtyr said, taking a step closer but remaining a healthy distance away. “But first, I believe you ought to let Beelzebub go.”

Lucifer blinked and waved vaguely in Beelzebub’s direction, allowing the floor to sink back into its regular position. “Come here,” he said, still motioning blindly for the other seraph, eyes locked on Ishtyr.

He felt more than saw Beelzebub walk over, and glanced over only long enough to find Beelzebub’s offered hand and pull the Seal of Solomon off.

“My apologies,” he said, transferring the ring to one of the pockets on his doublet.

“I have _never_ betrayed you,” Beelzebub said, perhaps a bit more sharply than absolutely necessary. “And I can explain about the Metatron.”

“…yes,” Lucifer said, finally allowing Beelzebub to draw more of his attention. “Do start with explaining why you never gave Crowley’s letter to Borchat.”

Beelzebub took a deep breath. “I am sorry, but I made a deal with the Metatron.”

Beelzebub had Lucifer’s full attention now, and he looked very much like he would rather that wasn’t the case. _“What?”_

“That’s how I got Crowley out of Midfarthing,” Beelzebub explained quickly. “That place is impenetrable. I tried for over a _year_ to get to him; you know that. But then the Metatron turned up and said they could give me Crowley if I helped them take a peach from the Tree of Life.”

Lucifer stared at Beelzebub, anger stirring in his gut.

“I swear I didn’t know at the time about needing to get to the Tree for Ishtyr. I just thought they wanted to be properly immortal. I tried to stop them from cutting it down, but I—I couldn’t. I am sorry. I didn’t think anything would come of it.”

Lucifer’s gaze hardened to a glare, the air around him beginning to warm with his anger. “You didn’t think _anything could come of it?_ You made a pact with the only seraph in Heaven and you thought _nothing would come of it?”_

“It is not his fault,” Ishtyr said, taking a step closer and raising a gloved hand. Beelzebub only stared back at Lucifer defiantly.

“I thought you were smarter than that,” Lucifer growled at Beelzebub. “You know that every word from the Metatron’s tongue is a lie.”

Beelzebub’s wings started to raise defensively, and Lucifer thought bitterly that he should have kept the Seal on him. _“You_ wanted Crowley,” Beelzebub shot back. “I got you Crowley. You wanted Ishtyr; I got you Ishtyr.”

“And he _kills everything he touches!”_

“Venus,” Ishtyr said sharply. “If it had not been for Beelzebub, I would not be here, in this world, at all. And we planted another Tree of Life. In a few years, it will bear fruit that should be able to make me properly immortal. I will then almost certainly be able to touch living things without reaping them.”

Beelzebub arched his eyebrows at Lucifer, as though daring him to continue his diatribe.

Lucifer glared at his finest lieutenant and held out his hand. “The handcuffs, if you don’t mind. I know you stole them.”

Beelzebub’s expression quickly crumpled and he looked away.

Lucifer continued glaring at him. “Well?”

“I think the Metatron stole them from me in Eden,” Beelzebub admitted sourly. “I don’t have them anymore.”

Lucifer dropped his hand back to his side, feeling a new flash of frustration. “So not only has the Metatron played you like a fiddle, but they have also _stolen_ a pair of handcuffs capable of holding any seraph on this planet? Just _brilliant_ , Beelzebub. Well played.”

“I—look,” Beelzebub said sharply, power building in the air on both sides. Then he abruptly turned and stalked towards the door. “Never mind, you don’t _lizzten_ anyway!” He strode out of the hall, the door slamming loudly behind him of its own volition.

Lucifer glared after him for a moment and then turned his attention back to Ishtyr, expression softening. He was a little surprised to see Ishtyr frowning at him, though, lilies lax in his gloved hands.

“Beelzebub did his best,” Ishtyr said matter-of-factly. “Crowley would have died if Beelzebub hadn’t helped him, as repayment for his providing information to you, and without his quick thinking neither of us would be here.”

Lucifer brushed aside his words. “Forget about Beelzebub. We have much to catch up on.”

Ishtyr frowned. “You were quite short with him.”

“He’ll come around,” Lucifer said dismissively. “He always does.” His eyes dropped to the lilies in Ishtyr’s hands, and he smiled faintly. “You always did like lilies, didn’t you?”

“Beelzebub allowed us to stop at a florist’s on the way here so I could get real ones.”

Lucifer sighed. “I’ll talk to him later. It really was very stupid of him, though. But in the meantime…” He took a step closer to Ishtyr and deflated slightly when Ishtyr took a matching step backwards, but understood why. “Tell me more about what happened to you.”

 

~~***~~

 

“So…you were with another man before…Bert?” Ludwig asked conversationally, though his casual pose sitting on the arm of the sofa seemed a little too forced.

Ann had declared that she was going to make tea for them all, and Harry had dragged Otho over to the kitchen to watch her make it, the sounds of Otho’s baffled comments wafting over to them. Alexander had left to head off Bert and possibly Mara and Beth, intending to bring them back to Ann’s heaven. That left Donnie and Ludwig alone in Ann’s sitting room.

“Yes,” Donnie said, looking over the photographs on the mantelpiece, ones with a Bert so much younger than hers but grinning just as broadly.

“Did you…love him?”

Donnie glanced over at Ludwig, who made a show of looking only mildly interested.

She frowned at him. “At first, yes. But we weren’t for each other.”

Ludwig made a noise of understanding. She thought he was done, but then he asked, “And when you met Bert…how did you know he was different?”

Donnie frowned at Ludwig, who was looking a little distressed. “Is there something you want to talk about?”

“I—uh,” Ludwig said, colouring and quickly standing up from his perch on the edge of the sofa. “No.”

Donnie narrowed her eyes at him. “I think there is.” She walked over and took a seat on the sofa. “Come, tell me about it.” She patted the cushion next to her.

Ludwig eyed the seat longingly.

“They’ll be busy in the kitchen for a while,” Donnie promised. “Come, let’s chat.”

Ludwig moved over and sank onto the sofa slowly.

“What’s on your mind?”

Ludwig looked at the ground and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “There’s someone—his name is Richard—I found him recently. He…” Ludwig’s mouth twisted. “When we were alive, he and I had a bit of a…you know.”

Donnie nodded.

“And I thought—I thought he was really the one. We weren’t able to stay together on Earth, but then, in my heaven…he’s who I was with. He was perfect. Everything was perfect.”

Ludwig looked down at his hands. “And then—I found him. This last year. I found his heaven. And he…he wasn’t quite as I remembered.”

“Ah.”

“He…well, he wasn’t that interested. In me.” Ludwig tapped his fingers against the back of his other hand. “I haven’t told anyone else about this, any of the others. They all, um…I told them all how much I lo—how great Richard was. And they all said I was wrong about him, and…they were right.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So if you could, um, keep this between us…?”

“Of course,” Donnie assured him. “So this Richard fellow doesn’t fancy you. That’s all right.”

“Yeah,” Ludwig said. “Actually. I tried to get to know him again, but…he is not the same person I knew on Earth. And he was different in my heaven. He says he never meant it to be serious, between the two of us. Honestly, I’ve been hiding around in other heavens for months, ashamed to admit that it didn’t work out. And actually…it’s okay. I don’t miss him that much, not anymore. But…shouldn’t I?” He looked at Donnie wordlessly, seeking confirmation.

Donnie took a deep breath, preparing to disseminate some hopefully not-terrible advice. “That’s probably for the best, if he’s not interested in you. And maybe you didn’t really like him all that much yourself, just liked the _idea_ of him.”

Ludwig shrugged hopelessly. “But I see everyone else—you and Ann with Bert, and Aziraphale and Crowley—and you all… _care_. So much. But in all my relationships…the problem has to be me, doesn’t it? I’m not—not trying hard enough or something.” Ludwig looked despondently at the floor, the tip of his nose slightly red.

“Oh, it’s not that, dear,” Donnie said, rubbing Ludwig’s shoulder consolingly and wishing she had a plate of biscuits to offer him. “Sometimes it’s just like that. You just haven’t found the right person yet.”

“But how do you know when you do?” Ludwig asked, looking at her desperately. “How did you know?”

“Oh, it was unusual for Bert and I,” Donnie said. “We were friends for a long time beforehand, and then we got to know each other better more recently. But I don’t know if you _can_ tell, not for a while, at least. Like my first husband—he was really sweet when I met him, and I just sort of overlooked his unsavoury traits. I thought he would change, or that they weren’t important because I loved him enough that it didn’t matter. But he didn’t change, and those little things became big things. I still cared about him for a long time, but…we weren’t a good fit. It wasn’t working.”

“And…with Bert? How did you know he was different?”

“Oh, I dunno…” Donnie considered. “We were both in it the same amount, I guess. Both willing to commit, both ready to try something new. It was more than just two old fools being lonely. We really…fit together, you know? Complimented each other.”

“Hm.” Ludwig looked morosely at the carpet. “Sounds nice.”

“It is,” Donnie said, patting Ludwig’s shoulder some more and wishing again for biscuits. They had always seemed to cheer up her visitors. “And that’s why it’s worth searching for. But if it’s not Richard, then it’s not Richard, and you don’t have an obligation to him any more than he does to you. It’s okay to let him go and look for someone else.”

Ludwig nodded, looking only fractionally less discouraged. “Thanks.”

“Don’t let it worry you too much,” Donnie said consolingly. “Just give it some time.”

Ludwig nodded and looked like he was on the brink of saying something else, but that was when the invisible door swung open and Alexander stepped through.

“Here we are,” Alexander’s voice said.

Donnie stood quickly, Ludwig beside her, and turned in time to see Bert walk clumsily through the invisible door.

He looked just as she had last seen him, when he had left for work that morning, in a tartan button-up and slacks and with a bit more stubble than usual. Bert’s eyes latched onto Donnie, and a relieved smile spread across his face as he moved forward quickly. Donnie started to motion towards the kitchen, where Otho was making a rather loud comment about leaf water, but Bert just threw his arms around her and pulled her into a tight hug.

“B—Bert,” she said in surprise, but when he pulled back it was only to give her a deep kiss.

“Are you all right?” Bert asked worriedly when he had pulled away, moving his hands to her shoulders and looking her over worriedly. “What are you doing here?”

Donnie had opened her mouth, not sure on how she intended on answering, when she saw Ann emerge from the kitchen out of the corner of her eye. Donnie turned her head towards the other woman and carefully took one of Bert’s hands off her shoulders, directing him towards the kitchen.

Bert followed her gaze, and she watched his expression transform into one of hesitant disbelief.

“…Ann?”

Ann smiled at him, and it was as though a flip had switched in Bert. He took a few hesitant steps towards her, his other hand slowly slipping from Donnie’s shoulder. Ann started forward as well, and they met in the middle, Bert throwing his arms around his first wife and pulling her into a tight embrace.

He pressed the side of his face against her hair. “Oh, Ann, are you real?”

Ann smiled and brought Bert closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “I am.”

Bert just held her close for a moment, shaking, and then he pulled back and gave her a kiss as well, long and deep, a hand on her cheek.

Donnie politely looked the other way, this time joining the four temporally displaced men in studying the decor.

“I—I missed you so much,” Bert whispered, unfortunately still loud enough to be heard by everyone in the relatively small room. “I love you so much.”

“I know,” Ann said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Bert made a choked little noise.

“There’s someone else you should meet,” Ann said. “I’m not the only one in this heaven.” She motioned to Alexander, who was the closest of the four men.

Ann tried to pull away from Bert, but he held her fast.

“I’ll be just a mo, my love,” Ann assured him, and ran a hand over his stubbled cheek before breaking free. “Alexander, you were here before—how about you explain it to him?” She started for a doorway to another room.

“Um, explain…?” Alexander asked.

“What you do,” Ann said, already out of the room. “Putting people back together.”

“Oh, yeah,” Alexander said. “So, each soul gets its own heaven, and your subconscious basically creates its own paradise based on what you want most, and _who_ you want most.”

Bert looked a little puzzled but nodded nonetheless, tears still glimmering in his eyes.

“We’ve been reuniting people,” Harry jumped in. “Couples and such, not necessarily soulmates but people who want to stay together, want to share their heaven with their _real_ friends and not just imagined copies.”

“It can be difficult finding people and putting them together,” Alexander continued, “but that’s what we—the four of us, the Fabulous Four—have been doing. Well, except for Otho, I guess.”

“I retired,” Otho explained.

“What does this have to do with Ann?” Bert asked, looking askance at Donnie, but she had no answer for him.

“The last time we were here,” Alexander said, stepping closer, “we found Ann living in her imagined world. We explained what had happened and what her options were. She asked us to look for another soul that she wanted to share her heaven with, and we found her.”

Bert was still looking a little puzzled, but something like hope mixed with disbelief was beginning to creep across his features.

A few creaks came from the next room, the sounds of a staircase being descended. And then Ann appeared in the doorway, bent over slightly and leading by the hand a little girl in a blue dress who couldn’t have been more than five years old.

Bert, who had been thus far bravely but very ineffectually trying to hold back his tears, gave up completely, a hand rising halfway to his mouth in shock.

“I think it’s about time you met our daughter,” Ann said.

The girl’s eyes lit up when she saw Bert, and she started running towards his legs, pigtails flapping behind her. “Daddy!”

Bert sank to his knees, tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks. He spread his arms and the little girl threw herself into them as comfortably as though she’d done it every day of her life.

Bert’s arms enveloped her and he held her close, more tears rolling down his cheeks as his fingers brushed the curls of her hair. “Oh, my little girl, my little Caroline,” he said, voice breaking as he pressed his cheek against the side of her head.

Donnie, who was feeling quite choked up herself, heard a sniffle and out of the corner of her eye saw Alexander and Otho both misty-eyed.

“I’ve children myself,” Alexander said, a little defensively, when he saw Donnie and Ludwig both looking at him.

“You were gone for so long!” little Caroline complained loudly, keeping her arms wrapped around her father’s neck.

“I—I’m here now, sweet pea,” Bert said, voice choked. After a long moment, the girl began to squirm and Bert reluctantly let her go, now drinking in the sight of her face. “Are you happy here?”

Caroline nodded enthusiastically. “There are lots of butterflies and—and funny rocks and pretty flowers outside. Do you like flowers, Daddy?”

“Do I like flowers?” Bert asked, looking very much like he’d waited his whole life to hear that question. “Sweet pea, I love flowers.” And Bert pulled the daughter he had never known into his arms again.


	20. Heaven is a Place on Earth

“Dead?” Golgoth echoed incredulously, staring at the demon who had brought him the news.

“That’s the rumour,” the demon, a Fallen principality named Vinafel confirmed, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “It’s not true, is it?”

“Of course not!” Golgoth said immediately, but his confidence was rattled. “Wasn’t the rumour only yesterday that Crowley had been spotted here in Hell? And that Aziraphale was here too?”

Vinafel nodded nervously. “But they are certainly not here now. No one knows where they’ve gone, and the rumour is that Lucifer and Beelzebub had a hand in whatever happened. Maybe they did away with them to reassert their control over Hell.”

“But that’s absurd!” Golgoth protested. “Lucifer was the one who declared the _surrender_ of Hell in the first place, and Beelzebub has always supported him. And besides, they’ve just locked themselves away in the ninth circle—they’re not exactly plotting an overthrow of the new order.”

“Word is that Beelzebub may not see things the same way as Lucifer does,” Vinafel said cautiously.

Golgoth waved a hand impatiently, turning back to the labyrinth of corridors leading to the individual hells, where he’d gone after leaving Zephrades paging through the first of Hell’s many ledgers. “That’s been the rumour for months and nothing’s ever come of it.”

“There’s more to the rumour,” Vinafel said, as though sensing Golgoth preparing to quit the conversation.

“And what’s that?”

Vinafel shifted uncomfortably, seeming suddenly reluctant to divulge his last piece of news. “Some of the angels who are helping with the Redeemed human souls have said that, when you unFall, they won’t…um…let you into Heaven.”

Golgoth froze, staring at Vinafel in shock. _“What?”_

“That’s the rumour,” Vinafel said, looking at his shoes.

“But they let Crowley in!”

“At the time, Crowley was an aberration,” Vinafel said. “They see you as the first of potentially many.”

“Where does this rumour come from?” Golgoth demanded. “Who in Heaven would deny me entrance?”

“Michael, according to the rumours,” Vinafel supplied. “And they say he has the support of Jophiel, so that’s all of Heaven’s warriors and guards.” Vinafel sounded a little nervous about it himself.

“Not all of them,” Golgoth said firmly. “Some of Michael’s and Jophiel’s angels are here, helping with Redemption.”

Vinafel shrugged worriedly. “Some of the angels here in Hell are saying they will go with you to Heaven when you are Redeemed, right up to St Peter’s gates if need be, and demand entrance on your behalf, but if it comes to a standoff, who knows where their loyalties will lie.”

Golgoth scowled at Vinafel, worriedly turning the problem over in his mind. He wasn’t terribly concerned about personally gaining entrance to Heaven—he truly did intend on returning to Hell to continue helping the cause here—but if he were denied entrance then a precedent would be set. Perhaps no one would be allowed in; perhaps Heaven would close their gates as well as their hearts. And if something _had_ happened to Crowley, as unlikely as that was…

“Find me Crowley,” Golgoth said, sweeping past Vinafel. “We can’t be having rumours of his death floating around Hell. Someone must know where he is.” Vinafel, trailing after him, opened his mouth to protest, but Golgoth cut him off. “No excuses; just find him! He may be the only one who can help.”

 

~~***~~

 

Aziraphale ran his thumb gently over the back of Crowley’s hand for the hundredth time, Crowley’s skin a little cold against his own but at least not burning with fever anymore.

He had been completely unconscious when a nurse had finally fetched Aziraphale from the dreadful waiting room and told him that he could see Crowley. Apparently he’d been supposed to stay for only five minutes before leaving Crowley to his rest, but Aziraphale had, with the help of a touch of magic, convinced the nurse that it was completely all right if he stayed, and he wouldn’t be any trouble.

After several hours in the ICU ward, Crowley had evidently been doing well enough to merit a transfer to a regular room, where Aziraphale had doggedly followed him, assuring everyone who looked at him disapprovingly that he had permission to be there.

They had Crowley on a drip now, supplying him with what Aziraphale understood was an exceptionally large amount of antibiotics to combat the infection. They’d put him under for the surgery to fix his side, and he’d been in a drug-induced slumber for hours now, unresponsive to Aziraphale’s gentle touches to his hand and face. Crowley had briefly woken some time ago, mumbling Aziraphale’s name and asking what was happening, but he’d slipped under again in the middle of Aziraphale’s response.

Now, Aziraphale was just keeping him company as best he could while nervously flipping through the same three hospital leaflets the nurse had given him. He’d read every word on them several times already, and wished he had a book to occupy his attention, though he knew he was too nervous to read more than a few sentences at a time anyway.

Aziraphale was worriedly skimming through the leaflet on gastrointestinal perforation yet again when he felt Crowley’s hand twitch against his own, fingers curling slightly.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, hastily setting the leaflet aside and taking a firmer grasp of his partner’s hand. Though the doctor had assured him that Crowley had a good chance of recovery and would likely be just fine, given time, Aziraphale had spent the better part of a millennium mistrusting hospitals and needed to see it with his own eyes.

The next breath Crowley took was a little deeper than the others, and Aziraphale stood and moved closer, looking down at Crowley anxiously. He was still very pale, but there was a hint of colour to his cheeks that didn’t look fever-induced, and he had been breathing steadily under the blanket.

Aziraphale studied his partner nervously, wondering if he would come around properly this time. The nurse had said the anaesthetic would wear off in a couple of hours, and that had been some time ago, hadn’t it?

Crowley’s lips parted slightly, but then a moment later he exhaled and seemed to settle in again, his hand growing still in Aziraphale’s.

“That’s all right, my dear,” Aziraphale told him softly, giving the back of his husband’s hand a gentle kiss and sitting down again. “Take all the time you need.”

Aziraphale picked up the leaflet and resumed staring at its cover, mouth twisted in worry. He had just opened the leaflet, resigned to waiting a little longer, when he heard Crowley’s voice, quiet and rasping.

“A…ziraphale?”

Aziraphale’s head shot up, and he discarded the leaflet in an instant, springing to his feet and hovering worriedly over Crowley’s bed, gripping his partner’s hand tightly. “Right here.”

Crowley’s half-lidded eyes, looking tired but clear, found him, and he smiled wanly. “Hi.”

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley slowly flexed his fingers against Aziraphale’s enclosing hands.

Crowley thought for a moment and then made a noncommittal noise deep in his throat. His eyelids slid closed again.

Aziraphale took that to mean that Crowley wasn’t feeling up to talking quite yet, so he reluctantly sat down again, keeping Crowley’s hand in both of his.

After what must have been twenty minutes, Crowley stirred again, fingers trying to sluggishly lace their way between Aziraphale’s.

“I’m here, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly, twining their fingers together and giving Crowley’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

Aziraphale watched a smile tug at the corner of Crowley’s mouth, and he took that as his invitation to stand up once more and resume his position leaning hopefully over Crowley’s bed. Crowley seemed have roused further this time, and he gave Aziraphale’s hand a return squeeze as his golden eyes focussed slowly on Aziraphale’s face.

“How are you doing, my dear?” Aziraphale asked gently. “Are you in any pain?”

Crowley took a deep breath and, after a moment, grimaced. “Bit achy,” he rasped, voice scratchy and quiet. He cleared his throat, the motion seeming to awaken him further. “It’sss…not too bad. Can’t…can’t feel much of anything right now, to be honest.”

“That’s the anaesthetic,” Aziraphale explained. “They put you under when they stitched you back up. Do you want some water? It might help your throat.”

“…sure,” Crowley rasped, and Aziraphale moved away to pour him a cup from a pitcher the nurse had left earlier. He returned a moment later and helped Crowley take a few sips, being careful not to spill too much. Crowley still looked very tired, but the water seemed to help a little, and he took a deep, steadying breath as Aziraphale drew the cup away.

“Let me know if you want more,” Aziraphale said, returning the cup to the small table and resuming his place at Crowley’s side. “And if the pain comes back, there’s morphine just here.” Aziraphale tapped a button nearby. “Or just let me know, and I’ll take care of it.”

Crowley tilted his head towards where Aziraphale had indicated, and then tried to raise his head slightly, looking down at himself. “What’sss…how’s it look?”

“Much better,” Aziraphale assured him soothingly, catching onto what Crowley meant right away. “The doctor said the blade had cut through part of your small intestine, and that was contributing to the infection. The surgeon was able to sew it up, though, and he said it should heal naturally. It could have been a lot worse.”

Crowley let out a breath. “Cool.” He let his head sink back against the pillow, voice still quiet but no longer as rasping and slowly beginning to strengthen. “And given that the Metatron straight up skewered Beelzebub, I suppose I should be grateful, huh? Any chance we can miracle it better?”

Aziraphale gave him a sad smile. “Already tried. It seemed to help a little, but it was hard to tell. Maybe after it heals a bit more on its own it’ll be more receptive.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement.

“The doctor said you should start feeling better after a couple of days,” Aziraphale continued anxiously, “when the swelling goes down. But it sounds like a full recovery will take closer to a year. I’ve been reading all about it.”

Crowley made an amused sound, eyes now roving interestedly around the room. His gaze settled on the window, which had heavy curtains drawn almost all the way across it, leaving only a sliver of daylight visible. “Where are we?”

“Tabriz,” Aziraphale told him. “Iran. It was the closest hospital of any quality. I figured we’d stay here for a few days, while you heal up, and then fly back to England so you can see someone there.”

Crowley nodded.

“Oh, and I…” Aziraphale reached back over to his chair, which had Crowley’s jacket slung over the arm, and grabbed the piece of folded paper resting atop it. He showed it to Crowley. “I found this in your jacket.”

“Oh…yeah,” Crowley said. “I gave it to Beelzebub to send to you, right away. But then, when we were in Eden, he said he hadn’t sent it, and gave it back to me.” Crowley’s eyes roved back to Aziraphale’s face, a vaguely mortified expression settling across his features. “But I—I _did_ try to contact you, I swear—”

“I know,” Aziraphale reassured him quickly, squeezing Crowley’s hand. “I went to Hell to look for you, and Lucifer explained what had happened. We talked to the messenger and realised he had never been given your message.”

Crowley nodded in relief, but a heartbeat hadn’t even passed before alarm suddenly flared in his eyes, banishing the last traces of exhaustion from his expression. “Oh, the Tree! The Metatron cut down the Tree of Life!” He automatically tried to sit up, his hand constricting around Aziraphale’s as he struggled to carry out the motion, urgency scrawled across his features. He didn’t make it very far before all the blood drained from his face and he fell back against the pillow, letting out a strangled, pained gasp.

“Hey, hey,” Aziraphale said in alarm, moving his free hand so that it hovered worriedly over Crowley’s shoulder, ready to intercept him in case he should try to sit up again. “Careful. Take it slow.”

“One of the—one of the peaches survived,” Crowley panted urgently, ignoring Aziraphale’s words but riveting their gazes together. “The one Beelzebub came back to life with. We planted it in Eden.”

Aziraphale blinked at him in surprise.

“And since it’s…it’s planted in the same soil, we think it’ll grow another Tree of Life! Ishtyr seemed pretty sure about it, and he’s Death, so he probably knows what he’s talking about.”

Aziraphale drew a deep breath, hope spreading through his chest. “R—Really?”

He’d been doing his best to ignore the pain of mortality, a relatively easy task with Crowley in need of much more pressing help, but it had begun to creep back into the forefront of his mind in the last few hours, shadowing his thoughts of the future. When Aziraphale had died as a mortal before, among the lilies outside of their cottage, his soul had been swept away to Heaven while his body perished, but he doubted he would be so lucky again. The body he had now wasn’t a proper corporation, for one thing, just an impression of himself that the Tree of Life had created for him; with the Tree now felled and Aziraphale’s immortality gone, he suspected that, were his body to be destroyed, his soul would be also. It was a grim prospect, all things considered, and one he would be glad to not have to dwell on for much longer.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, giving him a tired but relieved smile. “So we’ve just got to wait a few years, until it grows its first fruit, and then we can go back and get you another peach.”

Aziraphale smiled in return, squeezing Crowley’s hand in relief. “That’s—oh, Crowley, that’s great.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement, but it looked like his moment of strength was quickly fading, exhaustion beginning to steal back across his features. “So we’ve just got to…got to keep you in one piece for now, while you’re mortal.”

Aziraphale nodded hastily. “Understood. We can just lay low. Once you’re feeling better, we’ll go back to Midfarthing and keep out of Heaven and Hell’s business. And since it sounds like it’ll take a while to get you back on your feet, it’s probably for the best.”

Crowley nodded. “And there’s…something else.”

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to elaborate, but he was silent, expression conflicted. “What?”

Crowley hesitated for a moment more, looking like he was trying to decide how to best phrase what he was about to say. “Do you remember…when I died, before, Death and I had a nice chat?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said cautiously, not liking where this was going at all.

“He told me something then, but it didn’t seem very important at the time and I can’t remember if I told you about it or not.”

Aziraphale frowned worriedly. Crowley had told him a fair amount of what Death had conveyed to him, but admittedly there had been a great deal of it, and the revelations had nearly all been of the earth-shattering variety.

“I had honestly forgotten all about it, but then Ishtyr reminded me in Eden,” Crowley continued slowly. “The piece of my soul that you have, and the part of yours that I have…” Crowley hesitated. “They…Ishtyr said they tie our fates together.”

Aziraphale let that sink in, Crowley’s fingers still intertwined with his own. “What do you mean?”

“It means, if one of us dies…the other one does too.”

Aziraphale turned this over in his mind. He felt an initial burst of relief that the information Crowley had been so reluctant to disclose hadn’t turned out to be so bad after all. Then he thought it over again, and felt a second, more conflicted sense of relief. If what Crowley said was true—and he had no reason to doubt either Crowley’s or Ishtyr’s word—then that meant that he’d spent the last span of hours at least half worrying about nothing. He obviously still wanted Crowley to live very much, but it was an odd sort of relief to know that the two of them could never again be separated by death, as had already happened twice.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Well, I suppose that makes sense.”

Crowley eyed him nervously. “Had I…had I told you that before? I don’t remember.”

“You most certainly had not,” Aziraphale said, still processing the full implications of Crowley’s words. He remembered his own, recently returned mortality, and hoped fervently that Ishtyr _did_ know what he was talking about where Edenic Trees were concerned.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley offered. “I hadn’t really thought about it myself, and it seemed irrelevant at the time because you were immortal.”

“It’s…it’s fine, my dear,” Aziraphale said, returning his full attention to Crowley and giving him a reassuring smile.

“So are we…are we okay?” Crowley asked. “I figure, it’s not really so bad, right?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale agreed, giving the back of Crowley’s hand a gentle rub with his thumb. “And it does make sense when you think about it—we either live together or die together. It only seems fair.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, seeming slightly relieved at Aziraphale’s response. “And I mean, obviously I wouldn’t want you to—you know—if I, um…but if _you_ —I just—I don’t know if I could—”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley’s hand a squeeze. “I feel the same.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, and then blushed very slightly.

“I love you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, leaning over to plant a kiss on Crowley’s forehead, “as much as you like to forget it.”

“I…I didn’t…” Crowley mumbled.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said appeasingly, and gave him another kiss, this one on the cheek, before settling back down on his chair, drawing Crowley’s hand after him. “But I think you’d better get some more rest now, my dear. You’re frightfully pale.”

“Am I?” Crowley asked, a tired rasp creeping back into his voice as though to prove Aziraphale’s words.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. “That wound is going to have the heal the human way, you know. The long way.”

Crowley audibly groaned, but thankfully there didn’t seem to be any genuine pain in it. His eyes slunk closed. “Don’t remind me.”

“At least you’ve already done the hard part,” Aziraphale offered consolingly, patting Crowley’s hand and trying to keep his tone light. “You’ve survived this long, right? The recovery’s the easy part.”

Crowley made an unimpressed sound.

The recovery, Aziraphale knew, wasn’t actually likely to be very easy at all, if the pamphlets were anything to go by, but there was no sense in worrying Crowley at this juncture any more than he had to. There’d be plenty of time for that later, and Aziraphale fully intended on doing the lion’s share of the worrying anyway.

“In all seriousness, though,” Aziraphale said, looking down at Crowley’s hand. “That wound could have easily been fatal, and you fought so hard. You’re so brave. Thank you for not giving up.”

Aziraphale heard the rustle of Crowley’s pillow and looked up to see Crowley’s head turned towards him, a puzzled, tired smile on his face. “Of course I wasn’t going to give up,” he said, giving Aziraphale’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I had both of us to live for.”

 

~~***~~

 

Father Gilbert kept to a line of gold-barked trees as he crossed another stretch of rolling hills, the shape of Raphael’s villa dwindling behind him. Shortly after Bert had deserted him—something about an emergency and his wife; he had been crying and distracted and Father Gilbert hadn’t been able to stop him from going—Father Gilbert had remembered where the back door to the third heaven lay.

He had successfully left the vineyard behind and crossed into the second circle, peripherally aware of the way space warped around him as he made the transition. The heavens were strange that way, operating on principles of spatial geometry difficult for the human mind to comprehend. Earlier, for instance, when Bert had been insisting they were walking in circles, the truth was that they had been walking in a perfectly straight line, but had looped back.

In any case, Father Gilbert had reached the second circle and was now making a beeline for the first, where he knew the Metatron’s office lay. A considerable amount of time had elapsed already, and he had quickened his pace, impatient with his own incomplete memory and determined to head the Metatron off as soon as possible, before they bent the timeline onto a path it couldn’t return from.

Father Gilbert reached the end of the row of gold-barked trees and started off across the shimmering grass, the blades shot through with gold as well.

There was a statue on a square plinth ahead, a female angel with fancifully curving wings. As Father Gilbert neared, a bit puzzled—he didn’t remember making this statue when he had made Heaven—he saw that it appeared to be carved from a single piece of marble, so perfectly white and pristine it seemed to almost glow.

Then Father Gilbert crested the hill, coming to a halt beside the statue’s plinth, and realised what had happened here.

Over time, Heaven had cherry-picked the best of Earth’s architecture, ignoring any formal rules or contexts associated with them in favour of slapping the style wherever they felt looked best. This had resulted in a mishmash of architectural styles and features filling Heaven, a mix of everything from plain white brick buildings and classical temple-fronts to Italian baroque fountains and Russian Orthodox onion domes. What was laid out in front of Father Gilbert now was a picturesque landscape garden lifted directly from the eighteenth century.

Directly in front of him lay a long, perfectly straight avenue, three lines of trees bordering it on either side, cordoning off his view. At the end of the avenue stood a tall white obelisk, and he could see more avenues radiating from its base, those bordered by hedges, every path designed to draw him into a landscape that was as much maze and riddle as garden.

And beyond it, somewhere, lay the path to the first heaven.

Father Gilbert considered going around—he recalled there was more than one way to enter the first heaven—but he knew he had wasted plenty of precious time already. Besides, if this garden had been placed here to disguise the entrance to the first heaven, he had no reason to believe similar precautions hadn’t been taken at the other entrances.

So he started into the garden, striding down the slight hill and joining the avenue leading towards the obelisk. The path was longer than it had appeared, but at last he reached the obelisk, just as blindingly white as the angel statue. Father Gilbert didn’t bother examining it, instead striding down the central path radiating away from it. The gravel path was flanked by hedges taller than Father Gilbert was, and at the end he could see a stone archway of the triumphal type the Romans had once built, some sort of ivy trailing over it.

As he neared, Father Gilbert saw that they were pink roses, and when he stepped under the archway the next section of the garden opened up before him. Perfectly straight lines of cone-shaped trees marched away from him, like the bottom teeth of some huge monster. A long rectangular reflecting pond stretched directly in front of him, two more flanking it some ways away. A fountain bubbled in the centre of the pond, and more white statues on plinths bordered it.

“A bit of asymmetry never hurt anyone,” Father Gilbert muttered, striding quickly across the garden. It was as he reached the edge of the reflecting pond that he had his first suspicion that he was being followed.

It was a profoundly strange experience, a sort of anticipatory tingling at the back of his neck, an animal response to proximity that was so much more unnerving than simply _knowing_ who was about via omniscience.

Father Gilbert ground to a halt, gravel crunching underfoot, and turned to look back the way he had come. It was eerily silent, the only noises the occasional brush of the breeze through the manicured trees and the gurgling and splashing of the fountain.

When he didn’t see anything, Father Gilbert slowly turned back around and started down the path bordering the pond, his reflection following him in the dappled water.

Ten metres later, the hairs on the back of Father Gilbert’s neck stood up again, and he stopped and turned, scanning the garden and feeling profoundly unnerved. He really had no idea how the humans got along like this.

“Show yourself,” Father Gilbert said, voice seeming entirely too loud in the stillness.

He was beginning to cautiously feel around with his other senses when he turned back to the path and jumped. Someone was standing directly in front of him, dark-skinned arms crossed, two sets of white wings folded behind him.

“J—Jophiel,” Father Gilbert stammered, taking an automatic step backwards as his heart jumped unpleasantly into his throat. “No need to sneak around.”

Jophiel frowned at him and unfolded his arms, the movement only serving to emphasise the breadth of his shoulders. “How do you know who I am? And _you_ are the one who ought not be here, _human_.” Before Father Gilbert could take another step backwards, putting him out of Jophiel’s reach, Jophiel grabbed him, fingers closing around his upper arm tightly.

“Let me go,” Father Gilbert said in his sternest voice.

“Unlikely,” Jophiel said, and started back the way Father Gilbert had come, dragging him away from the first heaven.

Father Gilbert went unwillingly, racking his brain for any way to escape that wouldn’t tip Jophiel off. He _was_ an archangel, and as such he would almost certainly put two and two together if Father Gilbert showed any amount of power and inexplicably gave him the slip. He was also involved enough with the other archangels—and they with the Metatron—that interfering with his free will might well compound the issue of the wayward timeline.

“Did the four agitators release you from your heaven, or did you escape Hell?” Jophiel asked sourly as he continued marching back towards the rose-covered archway, dragging Father Gilbert after him.

“No one is _escaping_ Hell,” Father Gilbert said sharply, before he had the chance to think better of it.

“Ha!” Jophiel said, reaching the triumphal arch and striding under it, hand still firm on Father Gilbert’s arm.

Father Gilbert narrowed his eyes. As they strode past the hedges, Father Gilbert asked, “Where are you taking me?”

“Azrael,” Jophiel said shortly. “As much as I would like to personally send you back to the Abyss so you may continue your God-ordained punishment, you are a human and therefore under Azrael’s jurisdiction.”

Father Gilbert frowned at Jophiel’s back and shoulder, about the only part of him he could see as the archangel marched along ahead of him. “‘ _God_ -ordained’?” he echoed.

“Yes,” Jophiel said firmly, hand still clamped around Father Gilbert’s arm. “It is part of His Plan.”

All thoughts of escape abruptly fled Father Gilbert’s mind; reaching the Metatron was important, but here was something he could fix right now, something that had been pinned on _him._

“Actually,” Father Gilbert said carefully, speeding up so he could walk beside Jophiel and gesturing at his clerical collar. “As you can see, I am a priest, and I believe you have a few things mixed up…”

 

~~***~~

 

“It’s just here,” Alexander said, coming to a halt in a cluttered New York City flat and pulling open yet another invisible door. He held his arm out, indicating that his two companions should precede him.

“Thanks,” Mara said, and led the way into the next heaven. She took a few strides inside and stopped in surprise, taking in the space. It was the sitting room of a small cottage, similar to the ones in and around Midfarthing. Bert was there, looking far too old to be sitting on the floor as he let a small child weave daisies into his hair, a woman Mara didn’t recognise smiling from nearby. Donnie was sitting on the sofa next to a man in a suit, and two other men stood in conversation nearby, both dressed like they’d walked off the set of a particularly bonkers historical episode of _Doctor Who_.

Heads swivelled their way as first Beth and then Alexander came through the door after Mara, the latter closing it behind them.

“Mara!” Donnie said quickly, standing and winding around the sofa towards them, her knees protesting the movement. Bert looked around too, expression surprised.

“It was quite the journey getting here,” Mara said as she exchanged a quick hug with Donnie. “So many heavens!” She gestured to Beth, who was looking around curiously. “This is Beth; she’s looking for her children too.”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Bert asked incredulously as he walked over, a distressed expression on his face and a yellow flower tucked behind one ear. He was looking at Beth.

Beth crossed her arms. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I, er, came with Father Gilbert,” Bert admitted. “But how’d you even get here?”

“Portal,” Beth said shortly. “My useless excuse for a husband made one, and we think our kids wandered through it.”

“Oh no!” Bert exclaimed, glancing from Beth to Mara and back again, one of the daisies falling from his hair. “Are you still looking for them? Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Hang on,” Donnie said loudly, looking at Bert and gesturing at Beth. “How do you two know each other again?”

Beth shrugged. “Just met him yesterday.”

“And what was that about—about a portal?”

An almost apologetic expression crossed Beth’s face. “My husband’s the Antichrist.”

There was a moment of silence.

“But—but if there was a portal,” Donnie asked at last, sliding past the previous comment, “that means—are you two not dead?”

“God, I hope not,” Mara said, at the same time Beth said, “No.”

Donnie blinked, eyes suddenly overly bright. “What did this portal look like? It wasn’t in a field by any chance, was it?”

Mara shook her head. “Big white circle, spinning slightly, can’t miss it. And it was over a pond.”

Donnie nodded and looked at the ground.

Bert glanced over at her and his expression grew concerned. He laid a hand on her elbow, but before he could speak Ludwig had joined them.

“Sorry to intrude,” Ludwig said, stopping nearby, “but the four of us need to get going. You’re all more than welcome to stay here; hopefully one of us can circle back for you later.”

“Where are you going?” Mara asked.

“There’s an angel called the Metatron,” Ludwig explained. “We think they may be plotting something against Aziraphale, and we’re going to try to head them off.”

 _“Aziraphale?”_ Beth and Mara echoed incredulously at the same time.

“He’s a friend of ours,” Ludwig explained, looking between them in surprise. “Do you know him too?”

Both women nodded.

“If the Metatron’s pulled Aziraphale into this, then it must be bigger than just Crowley getting kidnapped,” Beth said, glancing at Bert. “I’ll come with you, Ludwig. Knowing my fool children, they’ll be right in the middle of all the action.”

“I’ll come too,” Mara volunteered, a little puzzled as to what was happening but knowing that Henry was likely to follow Beth’s children, if they had indeed met up with each other.

“I—” A conflicted expression settled onto Bert’s face, and he looked first at Donnie and then at the woman Mara didn’t recognise, who’d walked closer, the little girl hiding behind her legs.

“This…Aziraphale person means something to you?” the woman asked Bert.

The barman nodded heavily. “He and Crowley are the only reason I’m here at all, the only reason I even knew Heaven was real.”

A heartbeat later, Donnie rounded on Bert. “What do you mean—are you saying you already _knew_ about all of this?”

A distinctly guilty expression settled onto Bert’s face. “Um…I’ll explain on the way.”

“So you want to come too?” Ludwig asked.

Bert glanced over at Ludwig and nodded again, more firmly this time. “He is a friend.”

“I’ll come as well, then,” the woman standing behind Bert said.

“No, no,” Bert said, quickly turning back to her. “Ann, this could be dangerous—”

The woman named Ann looked insulted. “What, so you can go running off on dangerous adventures and I can’t?”

“But what if—what if something happens to you? I—I couldn’t bear—”

“Nothing will happen,” Ann told him firmly. “And something could happen to you too.”

Bert looked distressed. “But—what about Caroline?”

“She can stay here,” Ann said. “She’ll be safe. It’s Heaven; nothing bad will happen to her.” The little girl looked up at the adults from behind her mother’s legs, drawn by the sound of her name.

“Donnie?” Ludwig asked, turning to her.

Donnie looked around at them all and shrugged. “Seems we’re all in.”

Ludwig nodded gravely. “I thank you all. Ready any weapons you may have; we leave in five minutes.”

Mara locked eyes with Beth. _Weapons?_ she mouthed.

 

~~***~~

 

“How much further?” Henry complained, trailing after Harahel, Thomas, and Annabelle.

“Don’t know,” Thomas replied.

“Are you sure Grandad is in this direction?” Annabelle asked, skipping briefly ahead of Harahel to peer around at the grassy hills, virtually identical to every other part of Heaven.

“Yes,” Thomas and Harahel said at the same time.

Annabelle made a face but fell back into step with her brother.

Harahel swept his eyes across the hills, angling their path towards a road he knew ran from the fourth heaven, where the library lay, to the third. He’d been avoiding the roads so far, hoping to keep the children from attracting undue attention, but he didn’t know the back routes between the circles well enough to think he’d be able to find one in anything approaching a timely manner.

When Harahel knew they were only a few hills from the road, he slowed to a stop and turned back to the children, adjusting his grip on the heavy book in his arms.

“Please be quiet coming up,” Harahel told them. “There might be others around, and we don’t want to attract attention.”

“Monsters?” Henry asked hopefully. “Bad guys?”

Harahel didn’t necessarily think other angels were monsters, but nodded nonetheless. “Yes, and it’s important we’re very quiet. And stay close by me.”

After all of the children had nodded their acceptance of these rules, Harahel turned and continued leading them closer to the road, intending on taking a parallel path to it as they passed into the third heaven. He glanced habitually behind himself at the children every minute or so, making sure they were all staying close.

Lines of cherry trees began to appear along the crests of the hills as they moved closer to the third circle, their long willowy branches bearing hundreds of delicate pink flowers.

Harahel picked up the pace, beginning to hear the faint sounds of traffic from the road and knowing that if he missed the entrance to the third circle they could be wandering for hours.

Harahel heard the distant sounds of voices, one raised above the others, sounding like it was proclaiming something.

Then, quite abruptly, he felt the impression of an aura, well-cloaked but too close to avoid detection, and very different than any angel’s.

Harahel rocked to a halt, motioning to the children to stop behind him and beginning to unfurl his wings, eyes roaming around the lines of trees for the source of the strange aura.

“What’s—” Annabelle asked, and Thomas shushed her.

Harahel extended his wings further, protectively shielding the children in his care. He felt the half-hidden aura grow closer, and then a figure hurried over the crest of a nearby hill, from the direction of the road. He was conspicuous by his lack of wings, and he skidded to a halt as soon as he spotted Harahel.

“Sh—shit,” the man said, and started to reverse up the hill.

Harahel felt something push at the bottom of one of his wings, spreading the feathers, and a moment later he felt something shoot forward, past the safety of his wings. “Dad!”

Harahel made a grab for Annabelle as she dashed away, but missed. The man hurrying away from them stopped, eyes growing round.

_“Annabelle?”_

Thomas dashed past Harahel too, and he reluctantly folded his wings as the man scooped up Annabelle, holding her at his hip with one arm.

“Thomas! What are you two doing here?” A distressed look crossed the man’s face as he took a few steps closer. “Where’s your mother? Did something happen to the Tree?”

“Ahem,” Harahel said as he strode closer, Henry still trailing after him uncertainly.

The man eyed Harahel nervously, motioning to Thomas to get behind him. “Hi there.”

“You must be…Adam?” Harahel guessed. Even in the library, he had heard of the Apocalypse, and the part Aziraphale had played in preventing it.

“Yes,” Adam said. “And you are…?”

“Harahel,” Harahel said, folding his arms so that the heavy book was pressed against his chest. “Librarian.”

“Oh,” Adam said. “Pleased to meet you. Uh, what were you doing with my kids?”

“We were looking for Grandad!” Thomas said brightly. “You said he was in trouble, and we wanted to help!”

Adam gazed down at his son. _“That’s_ why you’re here? Your mother must be worried sick!”

“You…you always said we should help,” Thomas said, sounding a little lost.

Adam sighed heavily. “Yes, I did. Look, we’ll talk about this later. Harahel…” He switched his gaze to the angel.

“I found them wandering around,” Harahel supplied.

“Well, thanks for looking after them, then,” Adam said.

“Do you know whose this one is?” Harahel asked, shifting his wings to one side and revealing Henry, still hiding behind him.

Adam frowned at him. “Not mine. Was he with them?”

“Yes.”

Adam considered for a moment and then walked closer, Annabelle still clinging to his neck. He set her down and crouched next to Henry. “Hey there, little guy. What’s your name?”

Henry blinked at him, seeming a little nervous.

“His name’s Henry,” Annabelle informed Adam. “We met him in the village.”

“Do you know your full name?” Adam asked Henry.

Henry nodded bashfully.

“Could you tell it to me?”

For a moment it seemed like Henry wouldn’t reply, but then he said, “Henry…Am’rose Harper.”

“Harper,” Adam repeated, straightening up. “That’s a man in Midfarthing—this must be his kid. I can take him with me; I’ll make sure he gets back to his parents.”

Harahel nodded and nudged Henry closer to Adam.

“Come on, Henry,” Annabelle said brightly. “This is our dad.”

“Please do look after your children better in the future,” Harahel told Adam, a bit sternly.

“Sorry,” Adam said, and had the good grace to look ashamed. “I didn’t expect them to follow me.”

“You’re lucky I found them,” Harahel said. “Most angels would have taken them straight to Azrael, and then you never would’ve found them again.”

“I really do appreciate it,” Adam said quickly.

“And what are _you_ doing here?” Harahel asked, narrowing his eyes at the Antichrist.

“I—um,” Adam said. “It’s a bit of a secret, actually. But it’s for the greater good, I promise.”

Harahel made an unconvinced noise.

“Look, try to forget you ever saw me,” Adam said. “The timeline is very fragile.”

Harahel frowned at him. “The timeline?”

Adam looked distressed. “Really, it’s best that I don’t explain.” He started backing up. “Thank you very much for looking after the kids!”

Harahel frowned after Adam as he retreated, the kids trailing after him, but Harahel let him go.

When they were a safe distance away, Harahel looked down at the book in his hands, the one with the intricate runes wrapped around numerous precious gems. A very thin gold ring was embedded in the surface of the cover, almost lost amid the gilding and jewels but gleaming with etched glyphs of its own. Harahel recited the incantation again, a simple spell designed to point the way to the Creator whose language was recorded faithfully in the pages of this book.

The thin gold dial on the book cover rotated and fixed its pointer dead ahead, towards the third circle.


	21. St Michael the Archangel

“So this whole time—for all these millennia—you were just Death? Right there all along, but just out of view?” Lucifer was still struggling to accept the idea.

“Yes,” Ishtyr said patiently, readjusting his gloved hands where they were folded over the bundle of lilies in his lap. They were in one of the deepest rooms in the ninth circle, a rarely used council room with tall black columns reaching upwards into a series of complex vaults. Lucifer had miracled up two comfortable chairs for them, facing each other but far enough apart that there was no chance they would touch.

“And why—why didn’t God tell me?” Lucifer asked, his voice not as strong as he would have liked. “I built my revolution on you, on your _death_. A single word from Him could have changed all that—could have prevented the Fall—”

“You had made up your mind,” Ishtyr said calmly. “It was your choice, freely made. And you would not have believed Him had He tried to explain it; you had no way to conceive of what I had become—no one did. And I was still gone. I was as good as dead.”

“He could have tried,” Lucifer said bitterly.

“What is done is done,” Ishtyr replied, unruffled. “The Plan was devised to bring my message to you, and that is what it did. You have done well surrendering Hell.”

Lucifer ground his teeth together. “Redemption, yes—it is everywhere. But why so late? Why the six thousand years? If He truly cared so much, why did He let me run Hell, and let me run it like _this_? If He is so benevolent, why did He not stop me?”

Ishtyr sat forward carefully, locking eyes with Lucifer. “God did not force your hand. You created Hell, and ran it according to your own will. The Plan preserved free will, and to that end He waited six thousand years. Do not blame Him for your own misbehaviour.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Since when are you on _His_ side?”

“He visited me,” Ishtyr said carefully, sitting back. “He was the _only_ one who visited me. He told me about His Plan.”

“He could’ve visited me too,” Lucifer said, folding his arms. “I suppose He was just so terribly _busy_ —”

“Venus,” Ishtyr said sharply, and then corrected, “sorry, Lucifer.” Ishtyr took a deep breath. “You need to let go of this anger. It was not God who killed me, it was God who _saved_ me. And it was God who brought me back to you.”

Lucifer looked away.

“Please,” Ishtyr said, leaning forward again, gloved fingers playing with the lily stems. “I did not come here to fight with you. My message was meant to bring you peace, not provoke war.”

Lucifer’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I know.”

“Then why such anger?” Ishtyr asked. “You should be rejoicing—Redemption is coming for us all.”

Lucifer gave a short laugh, still avoiding Ishtyr’s gaze. “Do you think I enjoy it, being king of the damned? Being the chief sinner in a realm filled with those destined to be saved? If I am even capable of Redemption—of which I am not certain—I would surely be the very last to be saved. I am not so foolish as to believe that I will ever see the light of Heaven again.”

“That is not true,” Ishtyr said, and the firmness in his voice meant a lot to Lucifer. “God made the Plan for _you_ —to save _you_ , and those that had followed you. You are His son, Venus, and He is calling His children home.”

“God has many children,” Lucifer said dismissively, but the certainty in his voice had lessened. “He does not care for me in particular.”

“He does,” Ishtyr said, voice insistent. “But you do not need to believe in Him to be Redeemed.”

Lucifer didn’t reply, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. He didn’t remember Ishtyr like this, so straightforward and calculated. He seemed almost wise, confident in his grasp of the situation and level-headed about how he explained it. The Ishtyr he remembered had been adventurous, daring him to beat him in footraces and laughing when Venus tripped and fell face-first into a meadow of flowers. He had been carefree and happy and so, so innocent, believing wholeheartedly in the benevolence of their Father and knowing that nothing could ever go wrong in the world. Venus had been like that too, so trusting and somehow pure, as yet unscarred by the trauma of feeling her soul, filled with all the power of a seraph, overwhelm and destroy that of her best and closest friend. The Fall had only ripped those wounds open further, sowing the seeds of anger, hatred, and spite that would fuel Lucifer for six millennia.

He had hoped—rather foolishly, he saw now—that Ishtyr would be as he remembered him, a perfectly preserved relic of a bygone age, but Ishtyr had changed just as much as he had.

“What was it like?” Lucifer asked at last, tugging distractedly at the sleeve of his doublet. “Being Death?”

Ishtyr let out a long breath and tapped his fingers against the bundle of lilies. “Busy, I suppose. I got to meet a lot of people.”

“But…really?” Lucifer asked, trying to catch Ishtyr’s eye. “Was it…okay?”

Ishtyr shrugged. “It was lonely at times, sure, but the job’s easy enough. And you get used to handling trauma pretty quickly. Not everyone dies peacefully.”

Lucifer’s mind backtracked over those parts of human history he knew of, all the natural disasters and muggings and murders and _wars_ , some of them conflicts Hell was responsible for instigating. “I am sorry,” he said, and meant it.

Ishtyr shrugged again. “It was hard at first, but…everyone dies. And I was just the reaper. It gives you perspective, this job—you couldn’t do it without it. You can’t take every death personally.”

Lucifer nodded.

“And I really don’t mind it,” Ishtyr said quickly. “Most of the time it’s really not so bad at all. A lot of people think they’re going to a better place, being reunited with loved ones and such. And it’s an important job that someone has to do.”

Lucifer nodded again, something occurring to him. “And who…who is doing it now?”

Ishtyr blinked at him. “Oh, I still am. I’m still Death, I’m just…here while I’m doing it.”

Lucifer stared at him.

“It’s fine,” Ishtyr assured him. “I don’t mind.”

Lucifer nodded again, and there was an awkward silence, Lucifer racking his brains for something to talk about. He had been waiting for this conversation for six years now, ever since Belial had brought Crowley’s message to him, but he had imagined that everything would just snap back to the way it had been before, six thousand years ago, and Lucifer’s sins would cease to weigh on him. But they were still there, and Ishtyr had changed too, but that didn’t mean Lucifer didn’t want to get to know him again, didn’t still want his friend back.

“I see you kept my corporation,” Ishtyr said after a long moment. “Has it served you well?”

“Oh, ah, yes,” Lucifer said, looking down at his hands self-consciously. After the destruction of Lucifer’s corporation along with Ishtyr’s soul, God had allowed Lucifer to occupy Ishtyr’s corporation. It had probably been intended as a short-term solution, but Lucifer had clung to that corporation desperately, refusing to lose the last reminder he had of his friend. But it had served just as well as a punishment, because every time he saw his reflection he was met with Ishtyr’s face and was reminded of what he had rebelled for, and of what God had taken from him. And, over time, he had put his own marks on the corporation that had never been meant to be his, adding deep lines around the mouth and eyes and taking a once carefree face and turning it into the visage of a warrior.

“I do not mind that you kept it,” Ishtyr said, “but things will become confusing if I stay here.”

Lucifer tried to cast Ishtyr a casual glance and then aborted the motion halfway through, deciding he would rather not see Ishtyr’s expression. “Do you…intend on staying here?”

He saw Ishtyr shift in the chair out of the periphery of his vision. “After the new Tree of Life grows, hopefully I will be able to touch things again without killing them,” Ishtyr said carefully, “and I…well…there is no other place I particularly want to be.”

Lucifer snuck Ishtyr a glance and saw him gazing back at him, looking a little lost. “I mean, I can go if you’d rather, but I thought…? We _were_ friends…?”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Lucifer said quickly. “I know I’m—I’m not how I used to be, but what is left of my kingdom is yours.”

A brilliant smile spread across Ishtyr’s face, and for a moment he was just as Lucifer remembered him, overjoyed to run into his friend at a round of celesparring. “I would like that very much.”

“And if it’s—if it becomes a problem,” Lucifer added hastily, “I’m more than happy to switch corporations. It is yours, after all, and I don’t think you even _can_ switch…?”

“That may be true,” Ishtyr agreed, looking down at himself. “I do not know many of the details of how the Tree of Life works, but even if the Tree had not burned I do not think I would have had the ability to change corporations.”

“Then I’m happy to switch,” Lucifer said.

“There’s no rush,” Ishtyr assured him. “Oh, and what should I call you? You do prefer Lucifer these days, correct?”

Lucifer opened his mouth to agree and paused, thinking over the question. His mind had been on what sort of corporation he would want next, and he had been thinking vaguely that he would quite like to be a woman again. But perhaps he could shed more than his previous visage—perhaps he could give up Lucifer altogether. He had rebelled, Fallen, and ruled a realm he despised as Lucifer, but all that was for naught now. He had given up rebelling, freed the citizens of Hell to seek Redemption, and surrendered his kingdom.

Perhaps he _could_ be Venus again, as he once had. Venus and Ishtyr, together again. It seemed like such a fanciful idea, but…he could think of nothing he wanted more.

“Actually,” Lucifer said, “you can call me Venus.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Okay, what’s the plan?” Beth asked, locking her fingers together and flexing them.

“Um,” Ludwig said, adjusting his crouched position. “Well, I thinking if we could get close, maybe we could listen in on the Metatron talking about their evil plan?”

Several of the others, all similarly sitting or crouching, turned to stare at Ludwig while the remainder kept sharp watch by occasionally peering over the top of the short hedge behind them.

“What, because they’re just going to _talk about their plan?”_ Mara hissed at him. “Conveniently monologue to the camera, I suppose?”

Ludwig stared back at her. “What?”

“They’re not going to just give away their plan,” Beth said. “Can’t we trap them or something?”

“They’re pretty high up the chain,” Alexander said, glancing over at them from where he’d been trying to find a thinner area of hedge to peer through. “And that means they’re powerful. I’d rather not wind up dead, so a direct attack is not a good idea, and I have no idea how to trap them.”

“You’re already dead,” Otho pointed out.

“More dead,” Alexander hissed back.

“There are sigils you can use to trap angels,” Bert said helpfully.

“Really?” Mara asked. “Do you know any?”

“Er, not off the top of my head,” Bert admitted sheepishly.

“Well, you four have caused Azrael a load of trouble,” Beth pointed out. “What do you normally do?”

“Um, we usually have a more targeted goal,” Ludwig said.

“We cause a ruckus,” Harry supplied. “We’re very good at creating distractions, but that’s not going to help here.”

“Well, there are a few guards,” Alexander said, risking a peek over the top of the hedge. “A distraction would get rid of them nicely.”

“What is that building exactly, again?” Bert asked.

“The Metatron’s manor,” Ludwig supplied. “Well, not really a manor, but it’s where they…I don’t know, live? Their office is inside, and that’s where they usually are.”

“I saw them snooping around Aziraphale’s heaven,” Alexander explained. “And only a few days later Aziraphale contacted a friend of ours and told her that Crowley had been kidnapped. She talked to Ludwig and he got us together again. But the Metatron almost certainly has something to do with it.”

“Maybe they’re not _behind_ it,” Ann suggested, leaning forward so the others could see her; she’d been bringing up the rear with Otho. “Maybe they’re _involved_ , but perhaps they can give us information about what’s happening.”

“Good point,” Alexander conceded.

“The Metatron’s at the core of it,” Beth assured them. “Adam and Fa—I have it on good authority that it’s the Metatron.”

“Yes,” Bert agreed. “Adam did seem certain.”

“All right, but I still say we should try to listen in,” Ludwig said. “If the Metatron is behind everything, surely they have underlings, people we could overhear them giving orders too. And then we could intercept _them_.”

“And do what?”

“Clobber them over the head,” Harry suggested. “Even as angels, they’ll stay down for a while.”

“Does anyone else have a better idea?” Ludwig asked, looking around at the assembled group. “If we’re lucky, maybe the Metatron will be out, and we can look around for clues.”

Beth made a noise of agreement.

“Okay,” Ludwig said when no one contradicted him. “Who wants to be the distraction for the guards? We may need a signaller as well, depending on how long we want to stay inside.”

“ _Or_ ,” Mara said, “we distract the guards and then ‘clobber’ them, as Harry said. Then someone just needs to guard the bodies and make sure they don’t wake up, and warn us if anyone else is approaching.”

Ludwig made a noise that indicated that he thought it was a good idea. “Any objections?”

“There aren’t any more guards than these, are there?” Alexander asked, peering at the manor through the hedge again. “Inside, do you think?”

“I didn’t see any around the back,” Harry said. “And no movement from the windows. It’s a small place, so hopefully no one’s inside, but we’ll need to keep our wits about us.”

“Yes,” Ludwig agreed. “All right, who wants to do the clobbering?”

“I’ll do it,” Otho volunteered.

“I’ll lead them to you,” Alexander said. “And Harry will help.”

“I will?”

“There are two guards,” Alexander pointed out. “They might not both go after only one person.”

“Fair enough.”

“Okay,” Ludwig picked up. “Alexander and Harry will draw the guards away, Otho will knock them out, and we’ll get inside. Bert, do you mind helping stand guard outside?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay, now the rest of you, stay here.”

“What?” Beth said sharply, as loudly as she could without drawing attention from the manor’s guards. “You are not _seriously_ going to leave the all of the _women_ here hiding behind this _hedge_ , are you?”

“Um,” Ludwig said, looking very much like that was exactly what he’d intended on doing. “Isn’t that what you want?”

 _“No,”_ Beth said. “I want to catch this bastard before they get away with anything else. They’re wreaking havoc with the Plan, you know.”

The expression on Ludwig’s face made it clear that he did not, in fact, _know_ , but he nodded slowly nonetheless. “But you are also still alive,” he pointed out. “The danger may be greater for you.”

“Never stopped me before.”

Alexander had moved closer, and he put a hand on Ludwig’s shoulder. “I do not think they are maidens in need of defending,” he told him quietly.

Ludwig pursed his lips. “Very well,” he said. “But do not say I was not a gentleman about it.”

Beth and Mara exchanged a glance. “Historical men,” Beth said to her, rolling her eyes.

“Anytime you’re ready,” Ludwig said, looking at Alexander, Harry, and Otho.

The three men readied themselves, shifting into low crouches, and started off along the hedge, trying to stay low enough to remain invisible.

The rest of them hunkered down to wait, the minutes seeming to tick by as the wind rustled the hedge.

“What was that question you had earlier about knitting?” Donnie asked, leaning towards Mara.

“What?”

“On the phone, you said you had a difficult knitting pattern you had a question about?”

“Oh,” Mara said. “I just made that up, sorry.”

“Ah.”

There was another long span of silence and then the sound of raised voices.

“Wait,” Ludwig said, though no one had moved.

“Halt! I said, halt!” one of the voices said, louder than the others, followed by silence again. After a moment, Ludwig peeked above the hedge.

“Okay, they’re gone. Let’s move.”

They all clambered to their feet and set about awkwardly climbing over the hedge, which was about a metre high and very prickly. Bert and Donnie helped each other over as Ludwig threw himself onto it on his back and rolled over it sideways, the effect slightly ruined when his belt caught on a branch.

A minute later, they were all on the other side, picking bits of leaves and twigs out of their clothing. Ludwig led the way across the stretch of lawn towards the manor. It would have looked exactly like a Georgian manor house, except that it was built entirely of white brick with only the occasional accent in some sort of tan stone. It was two storeys tall and had only five windows running along the front of it, implying a relatively small number of rooms. A circular drive lined with unnaturally blue flowers led to the front door, and on the close side the halves of the road met up again and ran out through a large barred gate filling a gap in the hedge. A strand of curling white smoke rose from one of the two white-brick chimneys.

“Why does everything in Heaven have to look so bloody creepy?” Mara asked as they sprinted across the grass. “It’s like surrealism and minimalism had a baby.”

“Lord knows,” Beth replied as they cut onto the circular drive and approached the door, which was painted the exact same shade of blue as the flowers.

“Shh,” Ludwig said quietly, reaching the door first and putting a finger over his lips. Donnie and Bert came huffing up after them as Ludwig opened the door and stepped inside.

Beth and Mara filed in eagerly after him, Ann on their heels.

Reassuringly, the interior was much more normal-looking, with dark wood panelling and the sort of glass and bronze wall lamps one would expect in a moody Victorian drama.

They were standing in a small foyer, a split staircase winding its way upstairs in front of them and a hallway stretching out to either side, illuminated by light streaming through the windows. Doors lined the wall on the side of the hall opposite the windows, and one of them, off to the right of the foyer, was noticeably ajar. It was in the right location to be the source of the smoke from the chimney they’d seen on the exterior.

Ludwig gestured to the ajar door and crept towards it down the hallway, the others following him as quietly as they could. When they were within a few metres, Ludwig stopped, turned back to them, and gestured for them to stay. Beth started furiously gesturing back at him, but Ludwig gave her a calming look, motioning to his ear.

Beth continued scowling at him, but let Ludwig creep closer to the door alone. Behind them, Donnie had taken up the rear and was tapping on Ann’s shoulder and miming a question.

Ludwig reached the door and hovered just short of it, head inclined and clearly listening. They all watched him as he stood there for a long moment. Then he turned back to them and shrugged.

 _Must be gone_ , Mara mouthed to Ann, who nodded. They all moved closer, still trying to be relatively quiet. When they were all bunched up around Ludwig, he reached over and gently pushed the door the rest of the way open. They leaned closer as one, trying to see inside the room.

“You can come in,” a voice said coolly from within.

All five of them froze, and a heartbeat later an angel walked into their collective view. He was classically handsome, with bronzed skin and a somewhat permanent-looking frown, two sets of white wings folded behind him. He was wearing a rather old-fashioned collection of armour that included an intricately engraved breastplate and what looked like a heavy blue skirt studded with strips of metal.

“Please,” the angel said, reaching out and closing his fist. “Do come in.”

The five of them let out strangled gasps as the angel pulled his hand back and they were dragged into the room by an invisible force. The angel turned his hand and they all slammed into a nearby wall, Mara only barely avoiding a painful encounter with the edge of the fireplace.

“The Metatron,” Ludwig growled, clearly trying to make himself sound intimidating even though he’d just had the breath knocked out of him. “You won’t get away with this.”

“No?” the angel said, pushing his hand down so they all hit the floor next, sitting with their backs pressed against the wood-panelled wall. “And I’m afraid I’m not the Metatron.”

Donnie winced as she hit the ground and then cast a furtive glance towards the still-open door. An impatient wave of the angel’s hand slammed it, making the lamps in the room rattle.

“Who are you, then?” Beth asked boldly.

“Michael,” the angel supplied. He slowly lowered his hand, the invisible force pressing down on them lifting. “I recommend you remain very still.”

The five of them shifted uneasily, exchanging glances, but none of them moved from the floor.

“So you’re working with the Metatron?” Beth asked after a moment. “As their lackey, presumably?”

Michael narrowed his eyes at her. “We are _partners_ ,” he said. “We seek a common goal. I am not their… _lackey_.”

“Then why are you in their office?” Beth shot back. “Sure looks like you’re reporting for duty to me.”

Michael just stared at her. “Who _is_ this insolent human?”

Beth raised her chin, gaze fearless. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Michael frowned at her. “I would like to know, yes, that is why I just asked.”

Mara sniggered and earned herself a sharp look from Michael.

“Why did you kidnap Crowley?” Ludwig said loudly. “Yeah, I know about that.”

Michael glared at them all for a moment and then strolled over to Ludwig, hand casually resting on the hilt of his sword. “I did no such thing.”

“The Metatron did,” Beth picked up. “Or did they not tell you about that?”

Michael cast her a poisonous look. “Mind your tongue, human, if you would like to keep it.”

“Aren’t you an _angel of God?”_ Ann asked tentatively, sounding incredulous. “Michael the archangel?”

Michael frowned at her. “Yes.”

Ann looked at Beth and then back at Michael. “And, pardon me, but you’re working with a kidnapper and just threatened a _human?_ Aren’t you supposed to be looking after the humans?”

“Yeah,” Beth added quickly. “Have you no _shame?”_

Michael’s expression grew irritated. “That protection does not extend to _errant troublemakers.”_

“I think _Azrael_ would disagree,” Ludwig said loudly.

Michael glared in Ludwig’s direction. “I should have known you’d be one of _them.”_

Ludwig flashed a winning smile.

“Seriously, what do you think God would do if He saw what you were doing?” Mara asked.

“People love you on Earth,” Donnie pitched in eagerly. “Thousands of children are named after you every year. You’re Michael the great and wonderful, slayer of wickedness.”

Beth looked at Michael pointedly. “And you’re _kidnapping people?”_

The look of irritation on Michael’s face grew. “I am doing what I _must_. I cannot allow Heaven to be overrun by that filth.”

“Which means…?”

“The _demons_ , you ignorant human,” Michael snapped. “They will be swarming all over. Heaven will be safe for no one. I will not allow Heaven to fall.”

“Um,” Beth said. “Do you have the faintest idea what God _actually_ wants?”

“Of course I do,” Michael retorted. “The Metatron is His Voice. We are doing _exactly_ what God wants.”

“But have _you_ talked to God?” Beth pressed. “How do you know the Metatron isn’t lying to you?”

“The Metatron is an _angel_ ,” Michael snapped. “We do not _lie_.”

“But you _do_ kidnap innocent people.”

“I told you, I don’t know anything about kidnapping,” Michael said sharply. “And if it was Crowley, then he had it coming.”

“Hold on,” Donnie said loudly. “I saw where that car hit him myself, and let me tell you he did _not_ deserve anything you did to him. He was just minding his own business!”

“He is a _spy,”_ Michael hissed, stalking closer to Donnie. “He is the _serpent_ in the grass, and he seeks to make Heaven Fall as he did humanity.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Beth said. “Have you _met_ him?”

“He just wants to live in peace,” Donnie said, feeling certain of this. “He barely even leaves Midfarthing.”

“He is _clever_ ,” Michael insisted.

It was then that there came an urgent, sharp pounding at the door, and everyone looked at it. “Donnie? Ann?” called Bert’s voice, sounding very worried.

“Stay there, Bert!” Donnie shouted as Michael raised his hand. “Let him be,” she told Michael.

“Are you all right?” Bert’s voice called worriedly.

“Yes!” Ann called back. “Just stay there. Don’t move. Be quiet.”

Michael surveyed them but when Bert fell silent he lowered his hand. “Another friend of yours?”

“Yes,” Donnie growled.

“So you say you don’t know about Crowley being kidnapped,” Beth picked up right where they had left off, “but why would the Metatron do such a thing and not tell you about it?”

“The details of the plan are not important,” Michael dismissed.

“Makes you wonder what else they’re keeping from you, eh?” Beth asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Nothing, I am sure.”

“Seems a bit optimistic to me,” Beth said conversationally to Ann, who nodded vigorously.

“I told you,” Michael said sharply. “We are working _together_.”

“Sure, sure,” Beth said appeasingly. “The Metatron’s a seraph, aren’t they? What makes you think a seraph would want to work with you?”

Michael narrowed his eyes at her. “Your prattle grows tiresome, human.”

“Just saying,” Beth said. “Pretty sure they’re just using you because it’s convenient for them.”

“I have a question for you,” Ann said, and Michael reluctantly dragged his gaze over to her. “Do you believe in God?”

Michael frowned at her. “What an incredibly stupid question.”

“I mean, do you _believe_ in Him?” Ann asked earnestly. “Believe that He has a plan for the world?”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “Obviously.”

“So if you are truly doing His work, then why are you doing such terrible things?”

“God works in mysterious ways,” Michael said. “It is not my place to question the ineffable plan.”

“Yes!” Beth said, pouncing on Michael’s words as though they had made something suddenly spring to her mind. “The ineffable plan! So ineffable! How do you know God’s plan didn’t send _us_ here to convince _you_ not to work with the Metatron? You’ve heard about the parable, the one with the—the drowning man—”

“Oh,” Donnie said quickly, picking up the story as Beth’s memory flagged. “Yes. There’s a man in a flood, and he’s standing on top of his house praying, because he knows God will rescue him. And God sends a man in a rowboat, and a man in a motorboat, and another man in a helicopter, but each time the man on the roof refuses help, because he expects nothing less than a direct divine hand to be offered him. And he drowns.”

“What you are doing is against God’s Plan,” Beth said, voice certain. “We are the man in the helicopter—your last hope to not drown in this flood. God sent _us_ to steer you away from disaster.”

Michael frowned at them, but his expression was a little less sure. “First of all,” he said, “that is not a real parable. Secondly, I do not know what a 'helicopter' is. Thirdly, how do I know you weren’t sent to tempt me to _leave_ the righteous path God set me on?”

There was a brief moment of silence.

“You can’t know,” Mara said at last. “There’s no way of knowing. It’s a shot in the dark. But I’m sure you’re familiar with the Bible, and what does it say? It says to love your enemy, and to welcome home the prodigal son, and to—to—to go after the one sheep in a hundred who strayed from the flock.”

“It condemns hatred and bigotry and pride,” Ann picked up. “It says to turn the other cheek if you have been struck. Is that what you are doing?”

“These demons,” Beth said, voice persuasive. “They want to come home. God is welcoming them back with open arms, with forgiveness and benevolence. And you would stand in the way of His great work, His masterpiece, and say that you know better because you believe in prejudice and deception and spite? Surely you did not think Hell would exist forever? That the kind of God who created the entire universe and sculpted each of His children by hand would simply stand by and let half of His creatures burn for eternity? How cruel do you imagine your God to be?”

Michael looked unsettled now, and he leaned back against the edge of the Metatron’s desk, wings twitching uncomfortably.

“If you believe that God is the only power capable of Falling or unFalling an angel,” Beth continued, “then surely you must accept that Crowley is an agent of God, an emissary sent to bring hope to an Abyss that has been without it for so long.”

“It could be a trick,” Michael said, but his voice was less certain. “Hell’s attempt to overtake Heaven now that the Apocalypse failed.”

 _Apocalypse?_ Ann mouthed in alarm at Donnie, who shrugged.

“It could be,” Beth allowed. “But if it isn’t, what side of history do you want to be on—the side of prejudice or the side of acceptance? If you are wrong, which side would God forgive you for being on?”

Michael was quiet, eyeing them nervously. He looked so much smaller without his anger and certainty, appearing all of a sudden very much like a child in his father’s clothing, a sword he didn’t know how to use hanging from his belt.

“We are friends of Crowley’s,” Beth said encouragingly. “Help us stop the Metatron, and start carrying out the work God would want you to be doing.”

Michael considered for a long moment, the five captives staring at him hopefully. After several seconds, he looked over at Donnie and cleared his throat.

“Are there really children named after me?”

Donnie was caught off guard by the question but nodded enthusiastically. “Loads. You’re one of the most popular angels; there must be thousands of stained glass windows of you all around the world.”

“And paintings,” Ann added.

“Paintings, yes,” Donnie agreed quickly. “You’re a favourite subject matter.”

Michael nodded slowly and thought for a moment more. “A reputation like that,” he said at last, “ought to be lived up to.” He turned back to Beth. “And my Father always did believe in sending advice from unexpected quarters. I’ll help you.”


	22. The Hope of God

Crowley roused slowly, distantly aware of a hand gently shaking his shoulder and Aziraphale’s voice saying his name. He didn’t seem worried or panicked, though, which was a nice change.

“Mmnr,” Crowley mumbled as he felt himself come around, a deep ache settling in throughout his body, accompanied by a strong desire to go straight back to sleep.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice said. “Crowley, my dear, we have a visitor.”

Crowley registered Aziraphale’s words very slowly as he allowed himself to waken, regretfully blinking his eyes open.

“He’s coming round,” Aziraphale said, patting Crowley’s shoulder as Crowley’s eyes slowly focussed on him. “Look who came to visit.”

Aziraphale shifted back, and it took Crowley a second to recognise the face of the short, balding man standing beside him. The last time Crowley had seen him, he had been wearing a baggy suit and a bowler hat, and though he’d kept the pinstripe theme, the one he was wearing now was much better-fitting, and he’d graduated to a stylish trilby.

“…Golgoth?” Crowley asked, making an effort to clear the last vestiges of sleep from his consciousness. “What are you doing here?”

“I am very sorry for disturbing you,” Golgoth said, sounding appropriately contrite, “but I have come for advice and help.”

Crowley moved his gaze to Aziraphale, who shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

“Go ahead,” Crowley said, trying to sit up and wincing. Aziraphale quickly moved forward and fiddled with a series of buttons by the side of the bed. A moment later the head of the bed raised, putting Crowley in a reclined sitting position.

“Are you…all right?” Golgoth asked, nervously adjusting his grip on the narrow brim of the trilby in his hands.

“Been better,” Crowley admitted. “Pro tip: the Metatron’s not very friendly.”

“The Metatron?” Golgoth repeated in surprise, glancing at Aziraphale. “Have they been causing you trouble?”

“You could say that,” Crowley said, scratching his nose with the hand not trailing the IV. “It’s a long story.”

“How’d you find us, then?” Aziraphale asked, sounding a little puzzled himself. “If you didn’t know Crowley had been injured?”

“Oh, one of the angels operating in Hell was flying nearby and felt Crowley’s aura,” Golgoth supplied. “I had made it known that I was looking for Crowley, so he reported it to me.”

Aziraphale made a noise of understanding.

“How’s Redemption going?” Crowley asked interestedly. “I hear you’ve become quite the celebrity.”

“It’s going very well,” Golgoth said, looking quite happy about it. “They’ve made me into a bit of a figurehead, but they’re doing all the real work. I’m actually…I’m about to unFall myself. I only have one pair of black feathers left. That’s why I’m here.”

Crowley blinked at him in astonishment. “Really? That’s great!” He exchanged an equally surprised look with Aziraphale. “Congratulations!”

Golgoth looked a little abashed. “I wish it were so easy. There have been some unsettling rumours about Heaven perhaps not allowing Redeemed angels in.”

Crowley’s expression sank into a frown. “They let me in.”

“There’s speculation that, now that they know it is a possibility that every demon may someday be Redeemed, they wish to put a stop to it before it starts.”

“Bastards,” Crowley said. “Must be Michael getting all holier-than-thou again.”

“Perhaps,” Golgoth agreed, looking a little worried about it.

Crowley exchanged another glance with Aziraphale. “Look, I’d go try to talk some sense into them for you, but, as you can see, I’m not in a great position to be doing that.”

“I understand,” Golgoth said quickly. “But if they will only let in someone who has been Redeemed if they have a seraph hovering over their shoulder, then they are not truly accepting the Redeemed person.”

Crowley frowned at him. “Then what can we do for you?”

“There is another rumour,” Golgoth said, glancing at Aziraphale, “claiming that the two of you are dead. I believed it to be utter nonsense, but I see now it might have had some basis in truth.”

“That we’re _dead?”_ Aziraphale echoed, looking surprised. “Where did that rumour come from?”

Golgoth shrugged. “I do not know. But if it is believed to be true, then that gives Heaven another reason to turn me away.”

“Well, we should be able to dispel that rumour pretty quickly,” Crowley said. “What do you want me to do?”

Golgoth adjusted his grip on the hat in his hands. “I had been hoping you would accompany me to Hell, just to walk around briefly with me, so that it could be seen that you were not dead, and that you were supporting me, but…”

“If I turn up looking like this, it’s only going to make the rumours worse,” Crowley warned, and Golgoth hastily nodded agreement.

“Yes. Is there…” He eyed Crowley’s midsection, still hidden under the blanket. “Is there no way it can be healed?”

“Divine sword,” Crowley said with a grimace. “It’ll heal, but it’ll take time.”

“Too long for what you need,” Aziraphale clarified.

“Understood,” Golgoth said, shifting on his feet. “The rumour _does_ say that _both_ of you are dead, though, so perhaps, Aziraphale, if you could come…?”

He turned to Aziraphale, who blinked his surprise. “Just me?”

“We can say Crowley is elsewhere, busy,” Golgoth said. “But if they see that you are well, they will assume the entire rumour is untrue. And it is widely known that you and Crowley are…of the same mind, so your presence with me would strongly imply Crowley’s approval of my Redemption. It is a workable alternative.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. “I—how long would it take? I don’t want to leave Crowley here by himself for too long.”

“Just a couple of hours,” Golgoth said. “Perhaps half a day. If we make a portal on the way there, you would only have to fly aboveground on the way back. We just need to get far enough into Hell for enough people to see you, and then we can leave again.”

Aziraphale flicked his gaze back to Crowley, expression uncertain.

“You can go,” Crowley said. “I’ll just sleep the whole time anyway.”

Aziraphale drifted closer and put his hand on the edge of the bed. Golgoth got the hint and took a few steps away, examining a painting on the wall but still easily within earshot.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked in an undertone. “You’re still very weak.”

“I’ll be fine,” Crowley assured him.

“He found us awfully quickly,” Aziraphale said quietly, moving his eyes to indicate Golgoth. “Someone else might too.”

“The Metatron was after the Tree,” Crowley reminded him. “Lucifer’s taking care of Beelzebub. No one is going to be looking for me.”

“There’s something bigger going on here,” Aziraphale whispered uneasily. “I’m sure of it. It’s too coincidental. Six years of nothing and then all of this at once? And with Golgoth about to unFall—tensions have got to be running high in Heaven.”

“I’m still a seraph,” Crowley reminded him. “I can take anyone who walks through that door without leaving this bed. And I’d sense the aura of anyone who could be a problem a mile off.”

Aziraphale’s expression was conflicted. “I’d be happier if you were in Midfarthing.”

Crowley gave him a tight smile. “And I’d be happier if I didn’t have a hole in my side, but that’s just how these things are.”

Aziraphale glanced over at Golgoth, who had moved on to studiously examining a sign by the door, and then back at Crowley.

“Do you trust him?” Aziraphale asked very quietly.

Crowley looked briefly at Golgoth as well, the demon appearing more put together but just as hapless as when he had first come to Crowley, hat in hand, to ask him for advice on how to unFall. He was of the lowest order of demons, with barely enough magic to bewitch a cat, but he had a heart that seemed good, and from what they’d heard from Kazariel he was doing a fabulous job rallying Hell to the cause of Redemption.

Crowley nodded.

“And you want me to go?” Aziraphale asked quietly. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”

Crowley considered. “He knows what’s going on in Hell these days better than I do,” he said after a long moment. “If this is what he says will help, then you should go. He deserves a chance at Redemption, like I had—they all do.”

“You’re sure?”

Crowley nodded again.

“Okay,” Aziraphale said, and gave Crowley’s shoulder a squeeze. He turned back to Golgoth. “All right, Golgoth, I’ll go with you. Did you want to leave now?”

“Oh, thank you!” Golgoth said. “Ah, a few minutes is good, yeah. I actually…there was something I was hoping to ask Crowley’s advice about.”

Aziraphale glanced back at Crowley. “All right, go ahead.”

Golgoth moved the brim of his hat through his fingers, slowly rotating it. “It’s a, um, rather private matter.”

Aziraphale raised one eyebrow.

“About Redemption,” Golgoth clarified. He looked at Crowley.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale in turn, wondering if he should insist Aziraphale be able to stay. Golgoth seemed harmless enough, though, and Crowley supposed that if it was something important he could always fill Aziraphale in later. Aziraphale was looking at Crowley too now, waiting for his decision.

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley said. “No problem.”

“Thank you,” Golgoth said, looking relieved. Aziraphale appeared a bit suspicious but headed for the door nonetheless.

“I’ll be just outside,” he said, locking eyes with Crowley for a moment and then drawing the door closed behind him with a click.

Golgoth moved closer to Crowley’s bedside and sank into Aziraphale’s chair, looking a little nervous. His fingers played with the brim of his hat.

“I was…I was wondering if you could give some advice on names,” he said.

Crowley blinked at him. “Names?”

Golgoth nodded. “If I really am going to unFall, I was thinking, I ought to change my name, right? Because I’d be an angel again, and I changed my name when I Fell.”

Crowley absorbed that. It was a legitimate problem, and he had to admit that it was one that Aziraphale, who had only ever had the one name, would have no context for.

“And also ‘Golgoth’ isn’t very angelic,” Golgoth continued anxiously. “If Heaven’s going to put up a fuss about letting former demons in, we probably ought to avoid rubbing their noses in it. And if I’m turning over a new leaf, doesn’t it seem right to change my name, because I am no longer the person I was before?”

Crowley grunted in agreement.

“But I know you didn’t change your name, so maybe—maybe it’s best not to? Maybe Heaven should have to accept us as we are. But I’m afraid I may set a precedent, whatever I do, and I was hoping you could offer some words of advice…?”

Crowley bit the inside of his cheek in thought, painfully aware of the hopeful look Golgoth was giving him, as though he were a beacon of wisdom in a turbulent sea, as though he knew everything there possibly was to know about being unFallen. And, he supposed, in a way he did—more than anyone.

“I think it’s your decision,” Crowley said after a long moment. “And you definitely don’t _have_ to change your name to make Heaven feel better. They’ll either come around or they won’t, and they’ll find excuses to love you or hate you either way.”

Golgoth nodded.

“It looks like you have three options,” Crowley said slowly. “Either keep your current name, get a new one, or go back to your original name. Did you like that one?”

Golgoth shrugged. “It was all right. But I—to be honest, I’ve spent so much time hating that person, since that…that was who I was when I Fell. And then I spent so much time hating Heaven, right after the Fall, and it sort of ruined it—”

“I get it,” Crowley said. “Bad memories.”

Golgoth nodded quickly, looking relieved Crowley understood.

“You’re right that ‘Golgoth’ doesn’t exactly have ‘angel’ written all over it,” Crowley said slowly, “but it _is_ a name you picked, right?”

“Yes.”

“So it has that going for it. To be honest, I did get some flak in Heaven about keeping my name. They wanted me to change it because they thought it sounded too demonic, but I didn’t want to, so I didn’t. And look, they got used to it.”

Golgoth nodded again.

“And your third option is picking a new name,” Crowley continued. “You can pick anything you like, anything that fits you. You can put a lot into a name.”

Golgoth dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I was leaning towards picking a new one,” he admitted. “I am not ashamed of who I am now, but I think it would help me make a fresh start. And if I am to be a symbol, then a change of name might give hope to others, showing that a new beginning _is_ possible.”

“Give hope,” Crowley echoed, remembering Kazariel’s occasional reports on Golgoth’s rising stardom. “Do you do a lot of that, in Hell?”

Golgoth considered. “I suppose I do. There is just…there is so much hope needed there. The humans, the demons…” He trailed off.

“There is no hope in Hell,” Crowley finished. He knew that better than anyone; he had spent centuries looking for it, searching desperately for the meaning of something that he had finally decided had been nothing more than a cruel and ironic joke by his Father.

“But there _is_ now,” Golgoth said quickly. “You put it there. And I see it—I see it every time I pull a human soul from its hell, and I see it in the eyes of the demons seeking Redemption.”

Crowley smiled, suddenly certain of what he was about to do. “I think I have the perfect name for you, Golgoth.”

Golgoth looked at him eagerly. “Really? What is it?”

Crowley gave him a very kind smile. “Phanuel.”

Golgoth blinked at him. “‘The hope of God’?” he translated. “It’s a beautiful name, but…surely someone must already have it? It seems like it would be popular.”

Crowley shook his head. “There is no angel named Phanuel.”

“Oh.” Golgoth seemed to turn the prospect over in his head, a faint smile settling onto his face. “It is a wonderful name. But are you sure it is not too…presumptuous?”

“Not at all,” Crowley assured him. “You have become a symbol for them, as I was for you. You are their hope, Golgoth. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Golgoth nodded. “I will strive to always deserve such a name.” He stood and gave Crowley an awkward little half-bow. “Thank you very much for helping me, Crowley the Redeemed.”

“Pfft,” Crowley said, and held his hand out, the one unhindered by the IV. “It was my pleasure. I’m happy someone’s looking after Hell. Save as many of them as you can.”

“I will,” Golgoth said, and he shook Crowley’s hand, looking very much like the honour might physically wound him.

“You can phone me anytime,” Crowley said. “I can…oh, I don’t have my mobile…I’ll get back to you on that. But as long as it’s not a full-time job, I really would like to help in any way I can. Once I’m healed up, of course.”

All the news of Redemption had had Crowley thinking about it more, and then his meeting with Lucifer and Beelzebub had struck some things home. Perhaps, he had come to think, it had been wrong of him to hole up with Aziraphale and pretend the world didn’t care about him, pretend that he had never set an incredible precedent. He still wanted to stay with Aziraphale in Midfarthing, of course, but perhaps they could take a slightly more proactive approach towards Redemption. Given that Crowley had inadvertently kick-started the whole process, it seemed that perhaps he ought to hold himself a bit more accountable for the consequences of his actions.

“Your mere presence would bring hope to so many,” Golgoth said, looking floored by the offer. “Your name alone is spoken with much reverence.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll see what we can do about that,” Crowley said. “Do you mind fetching Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale cast Golgoth a wary glance as he entered, but Crowley gave him a reassuring smile and he visibly relaxed.

“Would you like to leave now?” Golgoth asked Aziraphale politely.

“Just a moment,” Aziraphale said, moving over to where a scabbard sat on the floor near the bedside chair. He pulled forth his Edenic sword, the one he had once guarded the Eastern Gate with. “I was thinking, and I want you to keep this with you.” Aziraphale set the unsheathed sword just inside the bedrail, easily within Crowley’s reach. “In case something happens.”

“Oh, I could barely lift that,” Crowley protested. “You should take it with you, in case there’s trouble in Hell.”

“There shouldn’t be,” Golgoth interjected. “I have a team of loyal demons who will do their utmost to ensure Aziraphale’s safety.”

“Still,” Crowley insisted. “I really won’t need it.”

“Please,” Aziraphale said, tucking a fold of blanket over the sword and putting Crowley’s hand down on top of the hilt. “I’d feel better knowing I didn’t leave you completely defenceless.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’m not _defenceless_ , angel; I’m a _seraph_.”

“Please,” Aziraphale said again. “I can at least run away from trouble. And if anything happens, just…” He tapped his own chest briefly, and Crowley knew he was talking about the soul bond. “And I’ll come back straight away.”

“I’ll be fine,” Crowley assured him, but let the matter rest. He motioned with his head, trying to indicate that he wanted to give Aziraphale a goodbye kiss. Aziraphale took the hint and leaned closer, pressing their lips together.

“I’ll just, ah, wait outside,” Golgoth’s voice said, accompanied a moment later by the sound of the door opening.

“You’ll be careful?” Crowley asked when they parted.

Aziraphale found Crowley’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Of course. You just focus on healing up, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, noting Golgoth’s absence. “What did he want to talk about?”

“Oh, just names,” Crowley said. “He was wondering if he should pick a new one when he unFalls.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, seeming surprised by how harmless of a topic it was.

“I gave him mine,” Crowley said. “My old name, from before I Fell.”

Aziraphale blinked at him in surprise. “And he took it?”

“Eh, he doesn’t know it was mine,” Crowley said with a smile. “It fits him very well, though.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, and gave Crowley another kiss. He must have been dying to know what the name was—Crowley was fairly certain he had never told him—but he didn’t pry, instead only giving Crowley’s hand another squeeze.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Aziraphale promised.

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley said reassuringly. “I’ll be fine.”

Aziraphale pulled away reluctantly, looking very much like he wanted to stay and press kisses to Crowley’s face all day. “Try to get some sleep.”

“Will do,” Crowley said as Aziraphale began to move towards the door. Aziraphale gave him a lingering look as he left, and then he closed the door behind him and was gone.

 

~~***~~

 

“So you’re saying that, once damned, always damned?”

“Precisely,” Jophiel confirmed, continuing to lead Father Gilbert towards Azrael’s domain. He seemed determined to deliver Father Gilbert in person, likely so that he could see Azrael’s face when he did it.

“So…what? Ethics applies only to the living?”

“I suppose.” Jophiel didn’t seem terribly invested in the conversation, but Father Gilbert wasn’t done with him yet. He knew Jophiel was loyal and well-intentioned, and that he could bring him around to the right side of things; the archangel was just having trouble looking beyond his own nose.

“So there is no morality among the dead?” Father Gilbert pressed. “If there was a deceased human soul in Heaven who had escaped Azrael—”

“Like you, you mean,” Jophiel muttered.

“—then you’re saying that they could go around murdering whoever they pleased, because mortality is only for the living?” Father Gilbert finished, undeterred.

“No righteous human soul would do that,” Jophiel said, sounding like he thought that should have been very obvious. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have been in Heaven in the first place.”

“That’s quite the faith you have in a screening process you don’t understand.”

Jophiel cast Father Gilbert a frosty look. “Of course I have faith in it. Besides, the humans had their chance, on Earth, to prove what sort of person they are. That’s all the proof you need.”

“How do you imagine morality _works_ , Jophiel?” Father Gilbert asked as the archangel stepped out onto a white brick road and started dragging Father Gilbert along it after him. “Let us say you’ve made a deal with someone, and you have the opportunity to renege on that deal at no harm or benefit to yourself, but breaking the deal would negatively impact the other person. That is a choice, an ethical choice, and a human can be alive or dead to be in such a situation.”

“That doesn’t mean they can _change_ ,” Jophiel countered. “There’s a moral freezing at death. Everyone knows that.”

“ _Is_ there?” Father Gilbert echoed. “ _Do_ they?”

“Yes,” Jophiel growled.

“So you think that, because they are dead they do not feel, do not hope or despair or _repent?_ You think that they stopped living simply because they stopped breathing?” Father Gilbert drew a deep breath of his own. “People change because of _decisions_ and _circumstances_. Decisions are made by thought, emotion, circumstances of their own, and previous experience. Tell me, which of those, exactly, do the dead lack? Or the Fallen, for that matter?”

“I dunno,” Jophiel grumbled.

“And if they can _change_ , then they can be _Redeemed_ ,” Father Gilbert continued persuasively. “The wicked receive their punishment in the Abyss, yes, but what is the point of eternal punishment? If no corrective action results from it, it is surely just torture for the sake of torture, is it not? Does that seem _right_ and _just_ to you?”

“Look, I don’t make the rules,” Jophiel growled. “God does. I just follow them.”

“But perhaps you _misunderstood_ what God wants,” Father Gilbert pressed. “It happens more often than you’d think.”

“I’m in charge of _guarding_   _Heaven_ ,” Jophiel shot back. “This Redemption nonsense is clearly a trap designed to make us lower our guard.”

“Or perhaps it isn’t,” Father Gilbert pestered. “Maybe Redemption is real.”

Jophiel rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. I suppose you would have us _help_ them, then? God cast them out for a reason.” He kept his gaze in front of him. “And besides, only sinners pray for sinners.”

Father Gilbert could only stare at him for a moment, aghast. “Only _sinners_ …where on _Earth_ did you hear that? That is utter hogwash!”

“It’s true,” Jophiel grumbled.

“No,” Father Gilbert said sternly, “it is very much _not_. Where would we be, if only sinners prayed for sinners? No one would ever extend a hand, or ever seek to help those who need it most. And the sinners—those good Samaritans who _helped_ their brethren—they would be much more of saints than those that stood by, too high up on their horses to help the—the—the poor fellow fallen by the wayside!”

Father Gilbert was just finishing this diatribe, feeling very righteous and distressed that such ideas were circling, when Jophiel was hailed by an angel walking in the opposite direction, an elderly fellow with a heavy-looking black book pressed to his chest.

“Jophiel!” the angel called as he neared, and Jophiel ground to a suspicious halt, keeping a firm grip on Father Gilbert’s arm. Then the angel grew close enough for the two of them to pick out his features, and Father Gilbert blinked in surprise when he saw who it was.

“Harahel?”

“I see you’ve found my pesky human,” Harahel said as he reached them, glancing at Father Gilbert.

Jophiel was staring at Harahel incredulously, his expression conveying nothing less than complete disbelief. “You—you aren’t in the library.”

“No,” Harahel agreed, looking sternly at Father Gilbert. _“This_ rascal got away from me, and I know how you are about security so I came to fetch him at once.”

Jophiel looked blankly over at Father Gilbert, still seeming to be processing the fact that Harahel was outside. “I—um—I’m taking him to Azrael.”

“No need,” Harahel said smoothly. “Azrael lent him to me just a few weeks ago. I needed someone to help dust the shelves.”

Jophiel looked utterly baffled. Father Gilbert just stared at Harahel, wondering what on Earth he thought he was doing.

“He…Azrael…dusting your shelves?”

“Indeed,” Harahel agreed, straightening up slightly. “It’s been freeing up a great deal of my time for reading, you understand. Now, if you’d just hand him over, I’ll take him back to the library myself and keep a very close eye on him.”

“Um,” Jophiel said, looking uncertainly between the two of them. He ended with his gaze on Father Gilbert. “Is that true?”

Father Gilbert, who still had no idea what was going on but knew he ought to get back to tracking down the Metatron, nodded. “There is _so_ much dust.”

“I…all right,” Jophiel said, releasing Father Gilbert and nudging him over to Harahel. “Do, uh, have a nice time at the library, Harahel. If he gets away again, though, I _will_ take him back to Azrael.”

“Understood,” Harahel said graciously. “Thank you, Jophiel. Good to see you.”

“Uh…good to see you too,” Jophiel said.

“Think on what I said,” Father Gilbert advised him.

“…sure,” Jophiel said, and then began awkwardly walking away, glancing back over his shoulder every few metres as though he simply could not believe that Harahel was standing in the middle of the road.

Father Gilbert turned to the librarian. “Thanks for that. Would love to chat, but I really need to be going.” He started away from the road, back towards the first circle, but Harahel followed him quickly.

“No, you are _not_ getting away again,” Harahel said, voice sharp.

“My apologies, Harahel, but I really _do_ have pressing business.” Father Gilbert crested the first hill and started down its far slope, putting the road behind them.

 _“I_ have business with you too,” Harahel said, voice suddenly warbling. “…Father.”

Father Gilbert slowed slightly and cast Harahel a nervous glance. “Father Gilbert, yes, that’s me.”

Without changing his expression, Harahel took a large step forward and grabbed onto Father Gilbert’s shoulder, pulling him to a stop. He pushed the book he was carrying into Father Gilbert’s arms.

 _“ELION HEMIA AVION,”_ Harahel said. _“ULONIA AL A DIEM, NITZET ET CULAMON.”_

“Hey!” Father Gilbert protested, automatically looking down at the book in his arms. “That’s not what happ—oh, I see.”

“The language of _God_ ,” Harahel said, a triumphant glint in his eye. “Maybe three people in existence can understand it. _Father_.”

Father Gilbert kept his eyes on the book and sighed, tracing the golden dial on the cover wistfully. “All right, you got me. Please don’t spread it around, though; I’m not supposed to be here.”

Harahel’s bushy eyebrows shot into his forehead. “Not _supposed_ to…? You—you _made_ all of this; you can go anywhere you like! And, more importantly: I think I speak for every creature in this universe when I ask _where have you been?”_

Father Gilbert weighed the book in his hands uncertainly. “I took some time off, yes. But it’s not because I didn’t care.”

“No?” Harahel asked, crossing his arms. “Because that’s sure what it looked like.”

Father Gilbert took a deep breath. “There was trouble at the beginning; you know that. Ishtyr was never meant to die, and it set off a chain reaction, a domino effect so large I couldn’t control it.” He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Long story short, the Fall was inevitable and I set up a Plan to counteract it—the Redemption of the Abyss. It’s technically my plan but there’s very little of _me_ in it, you see. I didn’t want to be a capricious God, helping only when it was convenient and not when it wasn’t; that was too cruel. So I decided to stay out of it entirely, and gave everyone free will and all the opportunity in the world to exercise it.” Father Gilbert drew another deep breath, looking quickly in the direction of the road. “And everything was going great, but then there was a mishap with a pear and, again, long story short, the Metatron is plotting something big and I have to stop them, hopefully without making a big appearance.” He turned and started walking towards the first circle.

 _“What?”_ Harahel said incredulously, jogging after Father Gilbert. “That’s _it?_ _That’s_ your great explanation for abandoning Heaven—and Earth, _and_ the Abyss? We _needed_ you.”

“No, you didn’t,” Father Gilbert said confidently, pausing only long enough to press the book back into Harahel’s hands before resuming striding away. “You did just fine without me.”

Harahel stopped walking, and for a moment Father Gilbert thought he was going to let him go, already feeling a little bad for his short words, but then Harahel jogged to catch up with him again.

“No!” Harahel said, pushing himself in front of Father Gilbert and forcing him to stop, wings spreading out to either side to block his path. _“No_ , you are not getting away that easily. You—you— _you owe me an apology.”_

Father Gilbert frowned at him. “I’m sorry for abandoning Heaven,” he said, and meant it. “It was for the best, but if there had been another way—”

“Not for _that_ ,” Harahel growled. “No, for—for _Aziraphale.”_

Father Gilbert blinked at him and then felt his spirits plummet as he realised what Harahel was talking about. “Oh.”

 _“Yes,”_ Harahel said fiercely. “You—you _what_ , exactly? Wiped his memory and then just _left_ him on my doorstep? He didn’t have the faintest idea what had happened, didn’t have a _clue_ who he even was. I had to lie to him for _millennia_. I’m _still_ lying to him, because _you_ told me to.”

Father Gilbert looked away, uncomfortably remembering the incident.

“What did he even _do?”_ Harahel asked, voice worryingly close to pleading. “After all this time, can you at least tell me that?”

Father Gilbert shifted on his feet. “I told you he wasn’t in trouble.”

Harahel gave a short, humourless laugh. “Like I believed that.”

“He—I only—okay,” Father Gilbert said. “After Ishtyr’s death, mortality had been invented, right? I saw that, and what it would do to this world. I didn’t want that. I was going to give up, scrap this universe and start over with a new one. Aziraphale convinced me not to.”

Harahel blinked at him, the anger slowly fading from his face. “What?”

“It’s true,” Father Gilbert said. “He volunteered to help, said he’d do anything if I would spare the world. So I made him part of the Plan, part of the Plan for Redemption…such an important piece. He and Crowley—everything pivoted around them. But I had to wipe his memory so he wouldn’t suspect that he played a part. If he did, it would pull the Plan off the rails. But Aziraphale saved the universe from destruction as surely as Crowley did from damnation. You have every right to be proud of him.”

Harahel deflated a little, visibly clinging to Father Gilbert’s words. “Truly?”

Father Gilbert nodded.

“But you still—you could have explained _something_ ,” Harahel said. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t fair to _me_ , but you didn’t even think about that, did you?”

Father Gilbert bit his lip. The truth was, he had seen how much it would hurt Harahel, but he had done it anyway, for the sake of the Plan and the world he had hoped to make. “I am sorry.”

“Aziraphale was my _friend,”_ Harahel said, nose beginning to grow red. “He invented _books_. I was the _Librarian_. We built that library _together._ He must have written a quarter of those books. It was _his_ library as much as it was mine. And then Ishtyr died, and he wrote about that too, but then you—then one day you just turn up with him, and he has _no idea_ what’s happening, doesn’t even know _who I am_ —do you know what that _did_ to me?”

Father Gilbert knew very well but remained silent, knowing Harahel had been waiting a very long time to air this grievance.

“And you tell me to look after him, but say that I can’t tell him anything, and then you just—just—up and _leave!_ And the library—the library Aziraphale _loved_ , the library he helped _build_ —I had to tell him it was _mine_. And then—this place that was his _own_ —he asked me _permission_ to enter. And what could I say? I had to turn him away, because everything in the library was written _in_ _his own handwriting_. I spent _years_ rewriting _hundreds_ of books, books _he_ had written, so that he wouldn’t recognise his own damn handwriting. And the whole time—he just wanted to see the library. He wanted it so much. I had to tell him he had to _earn_ it, and then had to ban everyone else from entering so it didn’t seem like I just hated him in particular.

“And then there was the Fall of Man, and Aziraphale was permanently stationed on _Earth!_ You told me to _look after him_ —how was I supposed to do that from Heaven? I was worried out of my mind. But then, even after he was discorporated— _every_ time—he always wanted to go back, because he had found something there—something on that wretched planet that was better than me, better than any book I could provide. And there—was that the end of it? Was I free from my promise? I didn’t know, because _you weren’t there_.”

Father Gilbert swallowed.

“And then you—you just _never came back_. Just a whisper, here and there, nothing firm enough to grasp onto—and I lied to Aziraphale and lied and lied and lied, and I never left that damn library because it was the only place Aziraphale ever went after he was discorporated. He always just wanted to see the books he had taken so long to _earn._ ”

Father Gilbert nodded slowly. Harahel was glaring at him in a mixture of anger and pain, a few tears glistening on his cheeks.

“Harahel,” Father Gilbert said at last, stepping forward and putting both of his hands on Harahel’s shoulders. “I am truly very sorry for what I did to you. I was too busy looking at the big picture to think about how all the smaller pieces fit together. You did not ask to play the part I assigned you, but you did so wonderfully. Thank you. I release you from your promise.”

Harahel closed his eyes, the book still clutched in his arms, tears seeping free from under his lids. “Thank you.”

“All right,” Father Gilbert said, patting Harahel kindly on the shoulder. “Now, which way do you reckon the Metatron is?”


	23. The Hippocratic Oath

_“Venus,”_ Beelzebub muttered under his breath as he strode up and down the corridor, an utterly abandoned one he’d found deep in the ninth circle. “Going to change his name back to _Venus_.”

Beelzebub kicked a nearby rock and it clattered away from him. He still couldn’t believe Lucifer had accused him of treason— _him_ , like Beelzebub hadn’t stood loyally by his side for as long as he could remember. Like Beelzebub hadn’t had his wings broken during the Fall as punishment for that loyalty, or been the only person Lucifer trusted to set his own broken wings. Like it hadn’t been them against the world, for _millennia_.

 _“Ishtyr,”_ Beelzebub said bitterly, finding another rock and kicking it. He wished he’d never gone to Eden, never made that stupid deal with the Metatron, and left the Tree of Life well enough alone. At least when he and Lucifer been actively looking for Ishtyr, it had been _them_ doing the looking. Now, after having locked himself and Ishtyr away in one of Hell’s deepest chambers for several hours, Lucifer and his new best friend had taken over the throne room, chatting about Heaven knew what.

 _“Memories,”_ Beelzebub hissed, kicking a wall this time. “Like he doesn’t have plenty of those with _me_.”

“My lord Beelzebub,” a small voice said from behind him, sounding very tentative.

Beelzebub spun and glared at the demon who had dared approach him. “What?”

“There is an—an urgent deacquisition form that requires your signature,” the demon said fearfully, holding out a sheet of parchment.

“Fine,” Beelzebub growled, striding over and snatching the piece of parchment from the demon. Rightly, Lucifer should have been the one signing it, but Beelzebub had been effectively running what little remained of Lucifer’s kingdom ever since the surrender. Since even before then, Beelzebub had been largely in charge of overseeing Hell’s day-to-day operations, not that Lucifer had ever once expressed appreciation for it.

“There,” Beelzebub said, affixing his signature and handing the parchment back.

The demon bowed low, already beginning to skitter away. “Thank you, Lord Beelzebub.”

 _Lord Beelzebub_ , Beelzebub thought sourly. _Wonder how long before it’ll be ‘Lord Ishtyr.’_

Beelzebub kicked another rock, finding the exercise quite satisfying. The fact that Lucifer had decided to change his name back to his God-given one was unsettling him a great deal more than he knew it ought to, but it just seemed like Lucifer was going out of his way to erase Beelzebub. Not only had he so swiftly swapped Beelzebub out for Ishtyr at his right hand, but Beelzebub had never known Lucifer when he had gone by the name of Venus. He had met him afterwards, and by reverting back…if Lucifer was trying to pretend he had never met Beelzebub at all, he was doing a fantastic job of it.

Beelzebub found another rock and kicked it along the ground, the clattering noise echoing down the corridor. Perhaps he should just leave Lucifer to it, let him rot here in Hell with Ishtyr while Beelzebub found more appreciative company. Maybe Lucifer would finally miss him then, when he was gone.

“Serve him right,” Beelzebub muttered. “Maybe I’ll even unFall—ha, I’d love to see the look on his face then.”

The idea stirred a memory, and Beelzebub paused. He glanced around the deserted hallway and slowly produced a beautiful red apple from his cassock pocket, the fruit he had plucked from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.

“Bet you’d help me unFall, wouldn’t you?” Beelzebub asked it, tapping his finger against its side thoughtfully. The light from a nearby torch played across its surface enticingly, highlighting its lovely texture.

But as tempting as it was, Beelzebub knew he wasn’t going to unFall any more than he was going to leave Lucifer here, at least not yet. Even if he meant nothing to Lucifer, he hadn’t loyally served him for six millennia to turn his back now. Sooner or later, Ishtyr would prove himself to be woefully inadequate, and when he did Beelzebub would be there to support his king as he had always been. Besides, he had not taken the apple for himself—if he had, he would have eaten it the moment he had plucked it. It had been for Lucifer from the moment he’d first laid eyes on it. He knew Lucifer did not believe himself capable of Redemption, and Beelzebub had hoped the apple might be able to change that. And, though Lucifer’s present choice of company was discouraging, it didn’t change Beelzebub’s mind on this matter in the slightest.

“He’ll come around, you’ll see,” Beelzebub muttered to himself as he tucked the apple away again, eyes already scanning the ground for a new rock to kick. “He has to.”

 

~~***~~

 

Oswald Osbert Osprey drummed his fingers nervously against the steering wheel of the rental car, looking through the windscreen at the facade of Imam Reza Hospital. His heart was already in his throat as he glanced at the photograph of his grandnieces one last time, the one he’d hastily pulled from a scrapbook before driving to the airport for the flight to Tabriz.

The presumably forged documentation that awful angel had given him had allowed him to enter the country, though he had prayed at every turn for one of the TSA agents to realise how heavily he was sweating and pull him aside. Despite having failed to book ahead, obtaining a rental car had also been discouragingly easy, and his inability to speak a lick of Farsi or Turkish hadn’t saved him either, since the airport was comfortably multilingual.

Now, Oswald closed his eyes briefly, trying to ready himself for what he was about to do and hating himself more than ever.

Then he reached into the holdall resting on the passenger’s seat and pushed aside the folds of the white doctor’s coat until he found the mobile phone. It was the one he had taken from the unconscious body of the man he had hit with his car in Midfarthing, the same man apparently recuperating in the hospital just in front of him. How the poor man had ended up in Iran was anyone’s guess, but if he had been fleeing the angel he had clearly not gone far enough.

Oswald powered on the phone, fingers shaking, and waited until the loading screen finished. When it prompted him for a passcode, which of course he didn’t know, he laid it on the passenger’s seat directly on top of the photograph of his grandnieces. If he was very lucky, the police would still be trying to track the phone. The odds of anyone approaching him here, in Iran, were practically non-existent, but there was always a chance. With any luck, he would at least be detained upon his return to England. That way, the angel wouldn’t be able to make him harm anyone else. Even if the angel then freed him from prison, he would be on every watch list in the country, and surely he could not be held accountable for failing to complete a mission due to interference by the police?

He wished he had thought of this plan earlier, but it had only occurred to him on the plane, and he hadn’t wanted to waste any of the phone’s battery by powering it on then, since he didn’t have the right type of charger. He had bought one at the airport, and intended on leaving the phone on as much as he could from here on out, until he was caught.

But, until that moment came…Oswald reluctantly raised his gaze to the hospital entrance visible through the windscreen. He moved his hand to the cross necklace he always wore, closing his eyes and trying to draw strength from its cool metallic surface.

“The Lord forgive me my trespasses,” he said, and got out of the car.

 

~~***~~

 

Crowley was looking hazily up at the ceiling and doing his best to drift off when he heard the door open. He glanced over idly and saw a doctor enter, a clipboard and drip bag in his hands.

“Hi,” Crowley said.

“Hello,” the doctor said in a perfect British accent, voice slightly unsteady. He moved over to the drip stand and attached the bag in his hand. “How are you feeling?” He sounded nervous; Crowley wondered absently if he had just come from treating a patient with a particularly traumatising affliction.

“Sore,” Crowley said truthfully. “And my side—to be honest, it all just feels terrible.”

The doctor made a noise of understanding as he swapped out the IV lines. He fiddled with the pump for a few seconds, as though unfamiliar with the buttons, but eventually the liquid started flowing down the tube. He was half-facing Crowley now, and Crowley caught a momentary glimpse of a pendant hanging from the doctor’s neck, a silver cross fashioned in the Greek style.

Something shifted in Crowley’s mind as he looked at the necklace, feeling as though he recognised it but unable to place where he’d seen it.

“Are you—have you talked to me before?” Crowley asked, eyes still locked on the necklace.

The doctor turned towards him fully then, expression suddenly distraught. “I’m really, really sorry about this,” he said, and slapped a handcuff around Crowley’s right wrist, the one with the IV.

Before Crowley could process what was happening, the doctor had dragged Crowley’s other hand over, the cuff clicking around that wrist as well. All at once, Crowley felt his access to his powers vanish, the connection severing as though a curtain had descended.

A slightly belated surge of adrenaline hit Crowley and he tried to lurch away, yanking his cuffed hands away from the doctor and scrambling in the blanket for the sword Aziraphale had left him. Almost as soon as the adrenaline wave broke over him, though, it began to recede, fading with frightening speed as a heaviness spread through him, starting in his arm and moving up into his chest.

 _Drugs,_ Crowley realised groggily, eyes moving unsteadily to the fresh drip bag the doctor had installed. He immediately switched tactics to trying to rip the IV out of his arm, but his fingers had gone completely numb and his vision was already beginning to blur. He returned to groping blindly for the sword and felt his hand close around the cool hilt. He tried to lift it, but his arms failed him, feeling as though they were made of lead.

“I am _really_ sorry,” the man said in a distressed voice as Crowley’s head sank back against the pillow, his vision darkening.

“No,” Crowley moaned, tongue barely responding and fingers struggling to get a more secure grip on the sword’s hilt. “No…” Then he felt foreign hands lifting his shoulders and everything went black.

 

~~***~~

 

Aziraphale rocked to a halt, fear and adrenaline shooting through him with no warning. His eyes widened and he took a quick, sharp breath.

“—loop around the fifth…Aziraphale?” Golgoth slowed to a stop ahead of him, looking back in confusion.

Aziraphale’s eyes locked on Golgoth, and he took as long of a breath as he could, panic striking to his core. The first thought across his mind was that they’d already closed the portal to Earth. “Get me a mirror, _now.”_

Golgoth stared at him. “…sorry?”

“A mirror,” Aziraphale snapped, shouldering past Golgoth and striding towards the cluster of demons preceding them, the ones who’d been awaiting Golgoth’s return. “One of you—get me a mirror, _now._ A real one.”

After a moment’s surprise, several of the demons saluted and scattered.

“What’s this about?” Golgoth asked, hurrying after Aziraphale.

Aziraphale rounded on Golgoth in an instant, grabbing the Hero of Hell by the front of his pinstripe suit and shoving him up against the nearest wall, lily-white wings be damned. The remaining demons surged forward, to the defence of their leader, but Golgoth hastily motioned with his hand and they stayed back.

“You are a friend, Golgoth,” Aziraphale growled, his entire attention fixed on the low-ranking demon, “but if you knew anything about this, I will smite you where you stand, God help me.”

“I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Golgoth said, voice surprisingly steady.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him. “Something’s happened to Crowley, right after _you_ lured me away.”

Golgoth blinked, looking very taken aback. “What?”

His surprise seemed genuine enough, so Aziraphale reluctantly eased his grip.

“What happened? Is he all right? How do you know?” Golgoth asked in quick succession as Aziraphale released him, the other demons visibly relaxing.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale growled. “I need that mirror.”

Golgoth glanced at the cluster of demons and another one ran off.

“Are you sure something’s happened?” Golgoth asked.

Aziraphale frowned at him. “Yes, I’m sure. He…” Aziraphale cast a look at the demons and leaned closer to Golgoth, not wanting to advertise what he was about to say next. “He just lost his powers.”

Golgoth pulled back in surprise. _“What?”_

“Shh,” Aziraphale said, glancing at the demons again and grabbing Golgoth by the arm, leading him further away from prying ears. “This happened before, just a few days ago—someone hit Crowley with a car and kidnapped him. Beelzebub was behind it—he had these handcuffs that could prevent Crowley from using his powers—but I just talked to Lucifer and Beelzebub about it, and we’re on good terms now. There’s no reason for them to kidnap him again.”

“But that’s—that’s what’s happening again now?” Golgoth asked worriedly.

Aziraphale nodded. “I can feel it. But you—it’s too convenient, that this happened just after we left Earth. These—this idea to bring me here, whose was it?”

“Pardon,” said a tentative voice from behind them, but Golgoth waved the speaker away urgently.

“It was my idea,” Golgoth said. “It seemed like the best way to dispel the rumours.”

“And the rumours,” Aziraphale jumped on. “Where’d they come from?”

Golgoth shrugged hopelessly. “I told you, I don’t know.”

“Pardon,” the voice said again, a bit louder.

“The handcuffs,” Aziraphale said, switching tacks. “That’s got to be what they’re using, and Lucifer said he was fairly certain Beelzebub stole them before he went to Eden.”

“There have been rumours of unrest between Lucifer and Beelzebub,” Golgoth offered. “Perhaps they’re—wait, could they be trying to use Crowley as a pawn?”

“Oh, I’ll do it myself,” another voice said from behind them, this one stronger, and a hand grabbed Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale spun, automatically grasping for power that wasn’t there, and came nose-to-nose with an angel. Aziraphale didn’t recognise him, but judging by his armour and the insignia on his shoulder he must work for Michael. Directly behind him, one of Golgoth’s demons winced at the angel’s rough interjection into their conversation.

“You’re Aziraphale, right?” the angel asked.

Aziraphale frowned at him suspiciously, pulling his arm free. “Yes.”

“Good,” the angel said. “My name is Asterion, and I was sent here to kidnap you.”

For a moment, Aziraphale just stared at him. “What?”

“Michael sent me. He has important news. About Crowley.”

Aziraphale felt his heart skip a beat. “Wh—what is it?”

Asterion looked over his shoulder meaningfully, towards the demon standing nervously behind him and, beyond them, the cluster of curious-looking demons still within earshot.

“Give us some space,” Golgoth told them in a loud voice, and the demons obediently, though reluctantly, shuffled further away.

“Tell me,” Aziraphale demanded, eyes on Asterion.

“The Metatron is behind everything that’s been happening,” Asterion explained without preamble. “Michael has been working with them, but their methods have grown too extreme and Michael believes they are no longer doing God’s will. He sent me here to explain what’s going on and to help you.”

Aziraphale could only blink at him for a moment, unable to believe this incredible change in fortune. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” Asterion assured him. “I’ll try to make this quick. Michael only just explained it to me. The Metatron doesn’t believe in Redemption, and they don’t want _you_ to unFall.” This last was addressed to Golgoth, and then Asterion’s eyes moved back to Aziraphale. “Their plan is to Fall Crowley.”

Aziraphale felt all the breath leave his lungs. “Wh—what? Why? What did he—what did he ever _do_ …?”

“He’s the only demon to ever be Redeemed,” Golgoth said, looking equally shocked and almost queasy. “If he Falls again…it would make his Redemption seem like an accident.”

Asterion nodded. “The Metatron is hoping that, if Crowley Falls again, it will discourage others from even trying to be Redeemed. It would also give credence to the theory in Heaven that Redemption is a plot to disguise demons and smuggle them into Heaven. The strongest resistance against Redemption comes from fear of an attack from within.”

“But—but how—” Aziraphale stammered, clinging to Crowley across the soul bond and remembering how much his own Fall had hurt, and how much it would hurt Crowley, in so many ways, to Fall a second time.

“The Metatron’s plan is to kill you,” Asterion said, looking straight at Aziraphale, “in front of Crowley. Painfully, I gathered. They know you’re close, and are hoping it would anger Crowley enough to revive his old instincts.”

Aziraphale felt himself go cold all over, and he could only stare at Asterion’s deadly serious expression, wondering how the Metatron—an _angel_ —could even consider doing such a thing.

“The Metatron gave Michael instructions to send some angels to collect you,” Asterion finished. “He sent me.”

“The Tree,” Aziraphale said numbly, finally putting two and two together. “They cut down the Tree of Life—they must have known I was immortal.” He turned his gaze to Golgoth, who looked similarly stymied. “How did they know?”

“I’m afraid I was responsible for spreading the rumour about your deaths,” Asterion added. “I do apologise, but I was just following orders. I see now that it must have been designed to draw you here.”

“And to take me from Crowley,” Aziraphale said.

“What other meddling have you been doing in Hell?” Golgoth asked suspiciously.

“Mostly spreading rumours,” Asterion admitted. “Michael told me where Crowley was—Tabriz—and I was also the one who spread about that I had felt his aura there.”

There came the sound of footsteps from behind them, and Aziraphale glanced over to see a demon approaching with a rather large oval mirror in his arms. Aziraphale hastily took it from him, and he retreated.

“And about Heaven forbidding me access?” Golgoth asked Asterion sharply.

“Yes,” Asterion admitted. “That was me too. But I am afraid there is a grain of truth there. Michael, Jophiel, and the Metatron are the strongest proponents of keeping you out, but the other archangels are with you. And with Michael on your side now, your odds are even better.”

“Marker?” Aziraphale asked, looking back at Golgoth and Asterion, the mirror propped against the wall beside him.

“Pardon?” Asterion asked.

“Marker, I need a permanent marker,” Aziraphale repeated, holding his hand out and miming drawing in the air. “I don’t have any powers.”

“Oh,” Asterion said, and conjured what looked like an oil pastel into his hand. It was most definitely _not_ what Aziraphale had had in mind, but he took it anyway. He turned back to the mirror, half-crouched in front of it, and drew the necessary sigil on the mirror, a minor one that he could work even without magic.

“What _are_ you doing with that?” Golgoth asked.

“It’ll show me Crowley,” Aziraphale said, grateful for his extremely thorough memory as he scrawled the glyphs onto the surface of the mirror.

“The Metatron was arranging for his collection,” Asterion volunteered. “Michael sent an angel to Tabriz as well, to try to warn Crowley, but she had further to fly and may not have arrived there in time.”

“If he’s on Earth, this will show me,” Aziraphale said, finishing the sigil and handing the pastel back to Asterion, fingers smudged black. “ _Animach lez bezoat kadail acht-she etama ezarut kadalia outliech kodamatz enital ayl_ ,” he said, and the black marks melted from the surface of the mirror. “Show me the Serpent of Eden.”

The surface of the mirror shimmered slightly, but when it cleared Aziraphale was only looking at his own worried expression.

“He’s not on Earth,” Aziraphale said, straightening up and turning away from the mirror. He knew he shouldn’t have been expecting otherwise, but his heart plummeted all the same.

“He must already be in Heaven,” Asterion guessed.

“Out of my way; I know him!” a female voice said rather loudly from behind Aziraphale, and they all looked over as an angel with long red hair forced her way through the crowd of demons. She started striding towards them, ignoring the hushed cries of the demons to stay back.

“K—Kazariel!” Aziraphale said in surprise as she neared. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you, I’ve been helping with Redemption,” Kazariel said, reaching them and looking around at their fraught expressions, the mirror resting against the wall behind them. “Has something happened?”

Golgoth and Asterion both looked at Aziraphale, who realised a bit belatedly that they were expecting him to make a decision on whether or not to let her stay.

“The Metatron’s kidnapped Crowley and is trying to Fall him,” Aziraphale said, the words wavering on his tongue.

Kazariel’s faint smile of greeting froze, slowly replaced with shock. “What?”

“Michael was assisting them, but then he realised the wickedness of the Metatron’s ways and sent me to make amends,” Asterion supplied.

“Is—is there anything I can do to help?” Kazariel asked, looking a little lost.

Aziraphale swung his head back around to Asterion, hoping very dearly that Michael really was on their side and that this wasn’t just part of some elaborate ploy. “You said Crowley’s in Heaven, and you’re supposed to take me there too, right?”

“Correct,” Asterion said. “Deliver you to the Metatron so they can kill you in front of Crowley.”

Kazariel’s eyes grew round.

“So…take me there,” Aziraphale said. “If that’s what the Metatron’s expecting. Do they know Michael’s not working with them anymore?”

“No,” Asterion replied. “Michael only very recently realised the full extent of the Metatron’s plan. Once he learned it involved murder, he knew the Metatron had abandoned their sanity.”

“Great,” Aziraphale said, mind racing. “Do you know where they’re going to hold Crowley while they wait for me to get there?”

“Yes,” Asterion answered. “It’s a building in the third circle. Michael didn’t have time to take me there, but he said it was out of the way and rather small. The lock on the door can only be opened by cherubim or above.”

Aziraphale felt a wave of chills roll over him as he locked eyes with Kazariel, who had gone very still.

“This building,” Kazariel said shakily. “It doesn’t happen to be an abandoned armoury, does it?”

Asterion gave her a surprised look. “Actually, Michael did say something about that, yes.”

“Oh, God,” Aziraphale said at the same time as Kazariel closed her eyes.

“What, do you know it?” Asterion asked, looking between them and growing slightly more alarmed when he saw their expressions.

“It’s…it’s where they held Crowley before,” Kazariel said. “Before he unFell, before _Aziraphale_ Fell.”

“They tortured him there,” Aziraphale said, eyes fixed on the edge of Asterion’s sleeve. “He—I barely got to him in time.”

Golgoth visibly paled.

“But—but Samkiel’s dead,” Kazariel said, looking around at the others as though searching for reassurance. “I saw his body myself.”

“But the _place_ ,” Aziraphale pressed. “Even if the Metatron doesn’t touch Crowley—which isn’t likely, given what they’ve done to him recently—just being _there_ again—if the Metatron wants to Fall Crowley, that’s the best place they could have picked.” And suddenly Aziraphale realised why the Metatron hadn’t killed Crowley in Eden, why they had left him with only a gash across his side when they could have run him through like they had Beelzebub. They hadn’t intended to _kill_ Crowley at all.

“So we rescue him,” Kazariel said. “Send you and Asterion to Heaven, pretend like nothing’s happened, and we find a way to break Crowley out.”

“But who will open the door?” Golgoth asked. “None of us is a cherub or better.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I have a friend—” Kazariel began, at the same moment as Aziraphale said, “We don’t have to use the door.”

Kazariel motioned for Aziraphale to speak.

“The walls aren’t that thick,” Aziraphale said. “They’re warded, strengthened against magical attack, but _only_ magical attack.”

“It’s a quiet area,” Kazariel added. “The Metatron might post a guard, and you’d have to get past them.”

“The Metatron has no angels of their own,” Asterion volunteered. “They’ve been relying on Michael’s angels. If there is a guard, I can speak with them and tell them that we have new orders. Michael hasn’t told very many of us about the change of plan, in case it tips the Metatron off.”

“If the Metatron’s going to be with Crowley, we’ll need a distraction,” Aziraphale said. “Something to draw him away.”

“Ludwig and the others are very good at that,” Kazariel suggested.

“No, they wouldn’t make a big enough noise,” Aziraphale said, shaking his head. “The Metatron won’t leave for something beneath their paygrade.”

“What about Michael?” Golgoth asked, looking at Asterion. “Could he have an urgent request, draw the Metatron away that way?”

“I suppose…that wouldn’t tip them off that something was happening, right?” Aziraphale asked.

“It is possible,” Asterion agreed. “I believe he could arrange something.”

“I was going to say,” Kazariel interjected, “if we wanted to be quiet about it, there’s an angel I know, a dominion, who would almost certainly be willing to help. He would be able to open the armoury door. He’s in Heaven right now but he could meet us there.”

“Do you have any way of contacting him?” Golgoth asked with a frown.

“I _do_ ,” Kazariel said, and patted one of the pouches on her belt. “I’ve a mobile phone, and I got him one too.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked in surprise, remembering how long it had been before Crowley had given up insisting he should buy a mobile and just bought one for him. The reminder of his partner stung, and Aziraphale swallowed heavily, trying to reach out for Crowley through the soul bond again.

“Yep,” Kazariel said. “Do you have your mobile with you?”

It took Aziraphale a moment to realise Kazariel’s words were directed at him. “Yeah,” he said, patting his pocket.

“That gives us three points of communication,” Kazariel said.

“What’s a mobile phone?” Golgoth asked.

Kazariel and Aziraphale exchanged a look. “It’s a…a sort of box you talk into, and you can hear other people speaking out of it,” Aziraphale said.

Asterion tilted his head. “Like a communication spell?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale said. “Yes, exactly like that, except you need a mobile.”

“So is the plan…rescue?” Golgoth asked, looking among them. “What about the Metatron? Can we expose them somehow?”

Aziraphale began turning a plan over in his mind, testing it for flaws.

“Michael may be able to sway some opinion in his favour,” Asterion said, “but the Metatron is still the most powerful angel in Heaven. And they’re influential as well. Many still believe they have a direct line to our Father—and are maybe the only one who does.”

Golgoth looked surprised. “Do they?”

Asterion shrugged. “Depends who you ask.”

Aziraphale held up a hand, stalling further speculation. “Hang on.” He looked around at them then, at the friends he’d barely known he’d had preparing to do whatever was necessary to save Crowley, and perhaps a great deal more as well. “I have an idea.”


	24. Full Circle

“You remember what I told you about God’s Plan?” Ishtyr asked, watching Lucifer as he critically examined the black marble floor next to his throne.

“Which bit?” Lucifer asked, taking a few steps to the side and poking at the floor with a toe.

“About the message Crowley brought you,” Ishtyr said. “Telling you I forgave you.”

Lucifer nodded, still poking at the floor.

“That was supposed to be it. That message.”

“What do you mean?” Lucifer asked, looking from the floor to the opposite wall, as though measuring the distance.

“I mean, I was never supposed to be here.”

Lucifer glanced at him briefly and then looked back at the wall. “So?”

“God visited me when I was Death,” Ishtyr reminded him, taking a few steps across the breadth of the long obsidian hall. “He told me of His Plan. I do not believe He would have hidden anything from me. He said I was going to be Death forever.”

“Well, you’re still Death, aren’t you?” Lucifer asked, turning and looking down the length of the hall, towards the double doors. “Or so you keep saying.”

“Yes,” Ishtyr agreed. “But the Tree of Life was never meant to Fall. Crowley was never meant to be injured, and I was never meant to return to Earth.”

“So?” Lucifer asked, shooting him another glance, this one hard to read. “You _are_ here, and that’s what matters.”

Ishtyr frowned at him. “I have been thinking about it,” he said, “and I believe something went wrong with the Plan.”

Lucifer didn’t respond, only walking a few metres away to look at the floor on the other side of his throne.

“And if something happened to the _Plan_ ,” Ishtyr stressed, following Lucifer, “then something must have happened to _God.”_

Lucifer stopped and glanced over at him. “So?” he said again.

Ishtyr folded his arms. “You may pretend to still hate Him, but He has done a great deal of good for this universe. If something has happened to Him, I must help where I can.”

Lucifer frowned. _“God?_ Are you seriously worried about _Father?_ You think the Creator of the Universe needs a _babysitter?”_

“I am serious,” Ishtyr snapped. “The Plan has gone awry; I am certain of it. I’m going to figure out what happened, with or without you.”

Ishtyr had put a great deal of stock in the Plan when he had been properly Death, watching millions upon millions suffer their last moments. The Plan was hope for them all, hope for every man, woman, and child he had ever reaped. The knowledge that they would all eventually be Redeemed, and that he would even get to send a message to Venus, whom he had loved so dearly as an angel, had been invaluable. During the deadliest wars, natural disasters, and plagues, that promise of a Redeemed future had been the only thing he had to cling to. And if something had happened—if somehow the Plan had been sabotaged and Redemption compromised—then he certainly wasn’t going to sit around and watch it happen.

“You’re serious,” Lucifer said with a frown.

 _“Yes,”_ Ishtyr snapped, perhaps a bit more sharply than necessary.

“But…how are you going to find God?” Lucifer asked, sounding legitimately curious. “He’s eluded detection for millennia.”

Ishtyr folded his arms. “Perhaps I will find the Metatron instead, since they are the one responsible for cutting down the Tree. They must have some idea.”

“The _Metatron?”_ Lucifer echoed, eyebrows shooting into his forehead. “They’re a _seraph_ , Ishtyr.”

“Which is why it might be beneficial if _you_ decided to be helpful,” Ishtyr said pointedly.

Lucifer’s frown deepened. “I can’t leave Hell; you know that. There needs to be a seraph here, to keep Hell from dissolving into chaos.”

Ishtyr raised an eyebrow. “Really? Can you even hear yourself?”

Lucifer scowled at him and turned back to the throne.

“Hell doesn’t need you,” Ishtyr said, adopting a kinder tone and taking a step closer. “There is no rebellion lurking just under the surface, not anymore. The hope of Redemption has come to all.” Ishtyr tilted his head slightly, trying to catch Lucifer’s eye. “Even you.”

Lucifer turned his head away and walked around his throne to evade Ishtyr, black wings fanning out and obscuring his figure.

“Come with me, Venus,” Ishtyr urged, taking a few steps after him. “Leave all this behind. Let’s figure out what’s going on with the Plan, and then we can stay on Earth.”

“Ha,” Lucifer muttered, out of sight behind the back of his throne.

“I’m serious,” Ishtyr said again, taking another step closer. “I know all about Earth. You can be anyone you want to be there. You wouldn’t have to be Lucifer, King of the Damned.”

Ishtyr took one more step and passed the back of the throne. Lucifer was standing only a metre away, gazing at its tall back. Since Ishtyr’s return, he hadn’t been able to help but notice all the hard lines his old friend had put on his corporation, and see the harshness that settled onto Lucifer’s expression with even the slightest annoyance. But now, standing here in the shadow of his throne, he looked for the first time like himself, like the bright young seraph Ishtyr had met so many millennia ago. His expression was incredibly sad and strangely soft, all the anger wiped from his face at last.

“This throne,” Lucifer said, eyes on its back, “is more than a chair. I am not just the King of Hell; I am the _Morningstar_. Every demon in this Abyss is here because they followed _me_ , because they heard _my_ call and chose to rally to it. Do you think I surrendered Hell for _myself?_ What good did that do me?” Lucifer turned away, the ebony colour of his feathers more obvious than ever.

“Redemption came to Hell whether I liked it or not—came and then blazed a trail out, a trail back to the stars.” Lucifer gestured upwards with one hand, miming the swath of Hell Crowley had obliterated on his and Aziraphale’s flight from the Abyss. “I could have stopped it. I’ve crushed rebellions before. Beelzebub is excellent at weeding out discontent.” Lucifer’s gaze dropped to the floor, his hand falling with it. “I may be the King of Hell, but I am also the leader of my followers. I led them here because I thought it was the right thing to do, because I thought our Father was an unjust ruler, but…”

Lucifer shrugged, the motion seeming far too trivial for so weighty a confession. “But then that same demon who had escaped Hell’s clutches by unFalling, destroyed great swaths of my kingdom, and spread discontent on a massive scale…he sent me a message, a message from you.” Lucifer turned and looked back at Ishtyr. “And if the message was true, if Father _had_ been just, then I had led them all here in error. So I surrendered Hell and allowed Redemption to spread. So that _they_ could go home. But myself?” Lucifer turned away again, moving around his throne. “It was _my_ mistake. I don’t get to go home.”

 _“…Venus,”_ Ishtyr said, following Lucifer around the throne. “You led them here, yes, but you can lead them out again too. Be the Morningstar once more.”

But Lucifer only shook his head, tapping the tip of one foot against the edge of the bottom step of the plinth the throne was resting on. “Golgoth is their star now,” he said. “I had my chance. And even if I wanted to…this is not a revolution I should lead.”

“But…at least help me with the Plan,” Ishtyr tried. “Then we can come back here together, and I…well, if you must stay here, then I will stay with you.”

Lucifer looked up quickly, seeming quite surprised by the offer. Then his face fell, and he slowly sat down on the steps leading to the throne. “You overestimate me,” he said softly, rubbing at one hand. “If I left Hell, and really saw what else there is—Earth and Heaven and all the rest—I do not think I would have the strength to return here.”

Ishtyr looked down at his friend wordlessly. He knew he ought to start looking for God or the Metatron as soon as possible—and on his own, if need be—but it seemed so wrong to leave Lucifer here, especially like this. So he walked over and sat down next to him, getting as close as he dared.

“I am sorry,” Ishtyr said. “I didn’t realise.”

Lucifer shook his head, looking at the floor.

“I…I still need to look into what’s going on with the Plan, but it can wait a little longer, I suppose,” Ishtyr said, carefully folding his gloved hands in front of him. “Like you said, God can certainly look after Himself, at least for a little while.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Surely I can be of _some_ assistance?” Golgoth asked incredulously as Aziraphale and Asterion prepared to leave, Kazariel already gone ahead to take a message to Michael.

“You’re too close to unFalling for us to risk anything happening to you,” Aziraphale said apologetically. “If the Metatron really is trying to prevent Redemption, if they can’t get Crowley to Fall they very well might just kill you. You’ll be safer here.”

“If there is any help I can offer, please send word,” Golgoth said. “I will try to find one of those mobile phone objects.”

“They’re a bit hard to find,” Aziraphale said, and then glanced over Golgoth’s shoulder at where Asterion was motioning for him to hurry up.

“Good luck,” Golgoth said worriedly, noticing where Aziraphale was looking. “I hope you get to Crowley before the Metatron does.”

Aziraphale patted Golgoth on the shoulder. “Me too. Thanks for your help.”

Golgoth nodded, but Aziraphale was already striding down the corridor after Asterion.

They had only just gone when Golgoth heard a familiar voice from behind him.

“Golgoth! Golgoth!”

He turned until he located the speaker and then stopped in surprise. Zephrades was sprinting towards him down the corridor, a piece of parchment clutched in his hand.

“There you are!” Zephrades panted as he skidded to a stop in front of Golgoth and thrust the sheet of parchment into his hands. “Look!”

Golgoth blinked at him and then down at the parchment. It had a single line of text written in Zephrades’s loopy handwriting, a string of numbers and glyphs that he recognised as referencing the organizational system of the human souls’ personal hells.

“I found her!” Zephrades said, expression both excited and terrified. “The first soul I ever damned—Cadriya ishtu Sodom—I found her!”

 

~~***~~

 

Crowley’s head rolled sideways, pressing into what he recognised dimly as his arm. There was something cold and sharp digging into the soft skin of the undersides of his wrists, eliciting numb tingles of pain.

After some time, he registered that he was upright, and that was why he was feeling nauseous, his side prickling uncomfortably. His feet were on the ground but his legs didn’t seem to be bearing much of his weight; on the contrary, his wrists, somewhere above him, seemed to be doing most of that, which probably explained why he couldn’t feel the tips of any of his fingers.

His head rolled the other way and he let out a groan, reaching instinctively for Aziraphale. He caught only the faintest impression, distant and distracted. He tried to open his eyes and found his lids heavy and only partially responsive.

“Z—Zira?” he rasped, lips barely parting and voice small and scratchy.

“I suppose you’re still a little out of it, aren’t you?” asked a voice that was most definitely _not_ Aziraphale’s. “Here. Let me _help_.”

Crowley felt a hand on the front of his left shoulder, and a heartbeat later power flashed through him, vaporising the last of the drugs in his system. He gasped as the pain the drugs had been holding at bay hit him all at once, and he jerked his head up. The memory of the man with the cross necklace crashed over him next, and it took him a moment to piece together what must have happened, and to make sense of the fact that he was staring the Metatron in the eye.

“Wh—wh— _you?”_

“Hello, Serpent,” the Metatron said, tones clipped.

Crowley tried to reach for his powers but found the way blocked, and as he twisted his wrists he realised that it was handcuffs, not manacles, biting into his skin.

And then, all of a sudden, he realised where he was. A wall of fear hit him, followed by a burst of adrenaline.

“I’m pleased you came around,” the Metatron said, strolling casually to the side and revealing even more of the blank white walls and the reinforced door opposite Crowley.

This time the memories were more like flashbacks, strong and so vivid that he couldn’t draw breath, coming one after another in quick succession. He was struggling against foreign hands pushing him back against the wall as Samkiel hefted a long silver stake—he was screaming as Samkiel plunged a dagger into his shoulder, only withdrawing it when Crowley couldn’t see for the pain—he was gasping out tearless sobs and shaking as Samkiel hissed yet another threat—he was begging for mercy as Samkiel rifled through his primary feathers and found the next one he wanted to rip out—and then, there at the end, he was sobbing wordlessly into Aziraphale’s shoulder as every nerve blazed with pain, so utterly grateful to be saved.

“Look familiar?” the Metatron asked, voice smug. “I picked it out especially for you.”

Crowley still couldn’t breathe, frozen in fear, wings trembling.

“You may call yourself an angel,” the Metatron said conversationally, strolling back into Crowley’s field of vision, which was already beginning to collapse into a tunnel, “but if you belong anywhere in Heaven, it is here.”

Crowley managed to suck in a rattling breath, hands already struggling to free themselves from their restraints, the metal of the handcuffs seeming quite unyielding. He vaguely noticed that he was wearing his suit again, the fabric still blood-stained and slashed across his side. His eyes found the Metatron and latched on. “Why—why are you doing this?”

The Metatron rocked to a halt and cast him a sharp glance. “Do you even need to ask? Most of Heaven seems to have forgotten that it was the _Serpent_ who tempted humanity to Fall, but I have not.” They resumed walking, moving to the other side of Crowley’s field of vision.

“What? I just—I’m not up to anything, I swear. I don’t do that kind of thing anymore.”

“Here I was hoping your lie would be a little more imaginative than last time,” the Metatron said mildly as they drew to a stop next to the door, in front of what Crowley saw with a fresh wave of fear was a table bearing an assortment of silver instruments.

“Pl—pleassse,” Crowley stammered, voice lapsing into a hiss in his fear. “What do you want? Jussst let me go.” His mind went back to Aziraphale, and he reached out for him again, trying to tell if he was all right. “I—I won’t be any trouble, I ssswear.”

“Ah, there’s the serpent, hissing away,” the Metatron said, turning back around and strolling over to Crowley. They weren’t holding anything, but that didn’t stop Crowley from shrinking back anyway. The Metatron reached out and tapped one of Crowley’s cheeks, near the corner of his mouth. “Still in there, lurking beneath these white feathers.”

“I—I’m not planning anything,” Crowley promised, voice unsteady. “I’m really not.”

The Metatron studied him for a long moment, grey eyes piercing. “And this from the tongue that deceived Eve.”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest but the Metatron had turned and was already beginning to stroll away, back towards the table.

“I—pleassse,” Crowley tried, tugging uselessly at the handcuffs, “I don’t mean Heaven any harm. I—I jusss—jussssst—”

“Tell me, Crowley,” the Metatron said, speaking over Crowley’s faltering attempt to profess his innocence, “do you know who among the archangels recommended Samkiel be appointed for your compulsion?”

Crowley felt his heart skip a beat but forced his mouth open, fearing that failure to answer might provoke his captor. “M—Michael?” he guessed.

“Correct,” the Metatron said, their back still to Crowley as they picked up one of the silver instruments from the table. “But did you know that it was _I_ who recommended him to _Michael?”_

The Metatron turned then, and Crowley saw the long silver stake in their hand, identical to the ones Samkiel had lodged in his wings twenty-five years ago.

“…n—no” Crowley stammered numbly as he watched the Metatron’s eyes move to the nearest of his wings, all six of which he hastily bundled closer to his body.

 _Six_ , Crowley realised with mounting horror and fear, throat closing. Samkiel had had access to only two, and that had been agony enough. The Metatron took another step closer, reaching for Crowley’s wings.

A wave of adrenaline rushed through Crowley then, and he felt the _fight_ part of _fight or flight_ kick in. He had been strung up on this wall once already, and he was damned if he was going to let it happen again.

“Don’t you even _think_ _about it,”_ Crowley snarled, heart pounding in his chest as he prepared to defend himself. He wrapped his numb fingers around the chain he found above the handcuffs and half-unfurled his wings, six sets of bone and muscle honed by flight.

The Metatron lunged for the nearest of Crowley’s wings and Crowley drew it back immediately, throwing another one forward instead and jabbing viciously at the Metatron’s face. The Metatron dodged deftly and Crowley swung at them with the third wing on that side, feeling the bend of his wing collide with the Metatron’s shoulder. The Metatron made a quick grab for it and Crowley only just slipped his wing out of the Metatron’s grasp before their hands closed around it.

As Crowley lurched away, he noticed that not only were his feet unrestrained, but he seemed to be bound only by his wrists, chained via the magic-inhibiting handcuffs. And though his arms were pulled up over his head, there was more slack in the chain than the last time he had been here, giving him a better grip and more leverage.

Crowley took a deep breath, lurched to one side, and jumped as high as he could, drawing his feet up after him. The jolt of coming back down was taken entirely by the chain, but unfortunately neither his wrists nor the handcuffs broke. The motion rocked him further to one side, though, tearing at the wound in his abdomen as Crowley threw his weight away from the Metatron. The chain rotated as Crowley swung away from the other seraph, causing Crowley’s shoulders and wings to slam intermittently against the wall as he skipped along its surface.

“Come back here,” the Metatron growled, and Crowley did a second later, momentum stalling and reversing, sending him swinging back towards the other seraph. Crowley twisted as he went, throwing his wings behind himself and aiming one foot at the Metatron’s throat and the other at their hand holding the silver stake. They stepped back just in time to avoid the kick aimed at their throat, but Crowley’s other foot connected squarely with the Metatron’s hand and he heard the stake clatter to the ground.

Then Crowley was swinging back the other way again, wings and shoulders banging into the wall quite hard and coming almost to a standstill as he lost momentum. He dropped his feet down to stop himself from swinging back, balancing on his toes but no longer standing with all of his weight hanging on the chain. He took a moment to adjust his grip on the chain, fingers number than ever and wrists and shoulders burning. His side was ablaze with pain, and he could feel something warm dribbling down towards his hip.

For a moment the Metatron just glared at him as Crowley stood half-bent over with his toes just touching the ground, as far away from the Metatron as he could physically get, wings flared out behind himself to act as a counterweight.

Then the Metatron held out their hand, palm parallel with the wall. “I can play games too,” they said, and flicked their hand sharply towards the wall. An invisible force crashed into Crowley’s side and he was forced sideways, slamming hard into the wall’s unyielding stone surface.

All the breath left Crowley’s lungs as he lost his balance, pitching forward and coincidentally back towards the Metatron. Crowley kept his wings behind himself, trying to keep them out of the Metatron’s reach, but by the time Crowley’s feet found purchase again the Metatron had grabbed onto the leading edge of the nearest of Crowley’s wings. They dragged it towards themself, wrenching Crowley closer and off his feet again.

“Let me _go_ ,” Crowley hissed, thrashing his captured wing every which way while the other two on that side took turns trying to jab the Metatron in the eye.

“Be still,” the Metatron snarled. The frustration in their voice was palpable, but their hands only tightened around the bend of Crowley’s wing, which was still trying to escape at all costs.

“I _said_ ,” the Metatron hissed, ignoring the jabs and smacks of Crowley’s other wings, “be _still_.” And then they forced their hands forwards and down, violently bending Crowley’s wing backwards until it broke.

Crowley screamed before he could stop himself, white-hot pain blazing along every nerve and vision careening towards static. He felt the scream die in his throat as he ran out of breath, suddenly shaking like a leaf in a gale. He tried to reel his other wings in, lest they should suffer the same fate, but he could barely feel them, teetering as he was on the edge of unconsciousness. He didn’t notice his back slamming against the wall again, and barely registered one of his uninjured wings being pulled open.

He was still whiting out from the pain when the Metatron pounded the first stake into his wing.

 

~~***~~

 

Lucifer and Ishtyr were laughing when Beelzebub pushed the door to the throne room open and stuck his head inside. The pair looked over as Beelzebub made his way into the hall, their laughter trailing off.

They were sitting on the steps in front of Lucifer’s throne, but Lucifer stood as Beelzebub approached, the grin on his face beginning to fade.

“Beelzebub!” Lucifer greeted him, brushing his doublet off and looking back at Ishtyr as he too climbed to his feet, white wings half-folded behind him. “What can I help you with?”

Beelzebub’s pace slowed as he neared, eyes moving between them. “What are you two doing?”

“Hm?” Lucifer asked, looking back at Ishtyr again. “Oh, just talking.”

Beelzebub waited for an elaboration, but none was forthcoming.

“And you…?” Lucifer prompted after a moment.

Beelzebub took a step closer to Lucifer, trying to avoid looking at Ishtyr. “I—I was wondering if I could have a word with you in private.”

The last of Lucifer’s smile faded, and he cast yet another glance at Ishtyr, as though he was having trouble keeping his eyes off of him. “Surely anything you can say to me you can say to Ishtyr?”

Beelzebub reluctantly slid his gaze to the angel, struggling to keep his voice as neutral as possible. “Are you…planning on keeping him here much longer? I’m sure Ishtyr has many other things to do, as Death.”

“Actually, not as many as you’d think,” Ishtyr said mildly.

“He’s staying for now,” Lucifer said.

Beelzebub turned his gaze back to Lucifer. “I _would_ like a word in private…”

“I’ll go,” Ishtyr volunteered.

“No, you don’t have to,” Lucifer said quickly, turning back to him.

“It’s no matter,” Ishtyr said, already turning and striding away from them down the hall towards the doors, giving them some space.

Lucifer turned back to Beelzebub, mouth settling into a frown. “What is it?”

Beelzebub drew a breath and hesitated, his gaze following Ishtyr and then straying back to Lucifer. “I—um—”

Lucifer’s frown deepened.

“Is he—is he like you expected?” Beelzebub asked, not needing to specify who he was talking about.

Lucifer folded his arms. “What’s it to you?”

Beelzebub averted his eyes. “I—I just—well, it just took us so long to find him, is all.”

“He is most welcome,” Lucifer said, voice curt. “And I would appreciate it if you stopped trying to make him think otherwise.”

“I—it’s not that,” Beelzebub said, looking at Lucifer’s shoulder.

“So what _is_ it, then?”

Beelzebub bit the inside of his cheek. “It was just that—that I…” Beelzebub trailed off. “You wouldn’t want to perhaps walk a patrol around the ninth circle with me?”

Lucifer blinked at him. “Whatever for?”

“To check the defences,” Beelzebub said. “Warn the guards off becoming complacent. You know, like we…used to do.”

“But I surrendered Hell,” Lucifer said, sounding as though he thought this should have been very obvious to Beelzebub. “We don’t need to check the defences.”

Beelzebub shifted uncomfortably on his feet, spirits sinking.

“Besides,” Lucifer said, sounding a little puzzled as to why Beelzebub would even suggest such a thing in the first place, “I’m busy.”

“…with Ishtyr?” Beelzebub guessed tonelessly.

“Yes,” Lucifer agreed, glancing over at where Ishtyr was standing near the double doors, looking up at the darkened, vaulted ceiling. “Though I suppose he might enjoy a stroll, now that you mention it. Maybe I’ll ask him later.”

Beelzebub looked at the floor.

After a long moment, Lucifer turned his gaze back to him. “Are you quite all right?”

Beelzebub drew a long breath and was proud when it only shook slightly. “Yes. Sorry for bothering you.” He turned and started walking away, eyes still on the floor, leaving a very puzzled and worried-looking Lucifer behind him.

Ishtyr took a few steps towards Beelzebub as he made for the door, opening his mouth to say something.

“Zzzave it,” Beelzebub growled, striding right past Ishtyr and pulling open the door to the hall. He didn’t stop until he was several corridors away, breaths coming a little faster and feeling very much like he had just lost the foundation he had built his entire life upon.

When Beelzebub was certain he was alone, he sagged heavily against one of the corridor walls, the flickering torchlight playing on the polished obsidian. He closed his eyes and just focussed on breathing, ignoring the burning in his sinuses and telling himself that he should have seen this coming.

It was clear now that he _had_ been replaced, and very thoroughly. Lucifer was done with him, done with Hell—out with the old, in with the new. Or perhaps in with the even older. In any case, it was clear that Lucifer had a new right-hand man.

Once, perhaps, Beelzebub would have done everything in his power to discredit, sabotage, or even murder anyone who tried to usurp him, but he found to his surprise that he simply didn’t have the heart for it this time. It was not Ishtyr who had wronged him, after all, not _his_ fault that Lucifer’s memory was apparently only a day long.

Beelzebub reached into his pocket and drew forth the apple he had plucked from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. He considered it for a long moment, feeling more tempted in that moment than he ever had before. He didn’t think he could stand staying in Hell any longer, not if it meant being around Lucifer and his new best friend. He had thought he could stay, and just deal with Ishtyr’s presence, but his resolve was quickly crumbling as he watched Ishtyr monopolise more and more of Lucifer’s attention. One of them had to go.

Beelzebub knew he ought to take a bite of the apple, ought to leave Lucifer to rot with Ishtyr while he made a desperate bid for Redemption, but…

But he knew he couldn’t leave Lucifer in Hell, leave him here while he sought greener pastures. They both had about a snowball’s chance of Redemption, but Lucifer would at least enjoy a new life on Earth or maybe even in Heaven, with his new name and his new friend. But Beelzebub…apparently, Beelzebub had no one but himself. And what did it matter if he were Redeemed, if there was no one to share that miracle with?

 _A parting gift, then_ , he thought, the words sticking in his mind as he looked down at the apple in his hand. _That way one of us can be saved. And perhaps, because of it, one day he will think on me kindly again._


	25. A Sacred Covenant

Crowley had entirely lost the ability to scream by the time the Metatron gave the second stake one final push, forcing it even further into the wall.

Crowley shook violently as he felt the delicate bones near the bend of his wing crack, driven apart by the wedge-shaped silver stake. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t draw breath long enough to scream, could only shake violently as his body failed to process the extent of the pain, vision practically non-existent. He kept blacking out, which would have been a sweet relief, except that every fresh shiver of pain jerked him back into consciousness.

Two of his wings were now pinned to the wall behind him, one on either side, the stakes holding them fast and forcing them to remain extended, exposing all of his feathers for anyone to rip out. The wing the Metatron had broken was slumped against the floor at Crowley’s side, already damp with blood and feeling like it had been crushed by a lorry.

His remaining wings had sought refuge by his sides, Crowley instinctively trying to protect them by drawing them nearer to his body, though he knew that it wouldn’t protect them in the slightest.

“There,” the Metatron said, sounding quite pleased with themself as they stepped back and critically surveyed their handiwork.

Crowley just hung there, shaking and sobbing as his legs refused to support him, leaving his entire weight to hang from his wrists. It took him several moments to register that the Metatron had spoken, his brain blank with pain and his breaths hitching and very shallow. His earlier thrashings had completely ripped apart his stitches, and he could feel the blood all down his side, soaking through his shirt and rolling down the outside of his thigh.

A faint shred of hope presented itself to Crowley in the form of the thought that perhaps the Metatron had finished with him, satisfied with the damage he had wrought to three of Crowley’s wings. It was quickly dashed, though, when the Metatron strode back over, apparently utterly unconcerned with the blood smeared over their palms and splattered over their forearms, and dragged one of Crowley’s remaining wings open.

Crowley’s shivers deepened as he felt the Metatron run a bloodied hand over his wing’s leading edge, as though searching for the best place to stab the next stake. Crowley tried to pull his wing away, or perhaps ram the edge into the Metatron’s face, but his strength was leaving him rapidly and he could barely shift his wing more than an inch.

“Here will do nicely,” the Metatron’s voice said, fingers pinching right between the ulna and radius of Crowley’s wing, along the bend of the leading edge. Crowley tried to tug his wing away again, a fresh round of terror sweeping through him at the thought of more pain, but the Metatron only dug their fingers in further. Crowley whimpered.

The Metatron released Crowley’s wing and it sagged back towards the floor. Crowley tried reeling it closer, but its movement was sluggish, trembling as badly as the rest of Crowley and knowing its fate was sealed.

Crowley let out a wordless sob, finally managing to draw a deep enough breath to begin to clear his static-charged vision.

“It’s a pity we’ve run out of wall,” the Metatron said mildly, their words accompanied by the sound of receding footsteps.

“P–pl–pleassse,” Crowley begged, gulping in another breath and shaking harder as he felt more blood rolling down his wings, sticking in his feathers.

“Fortunately,” the Metatron continued, ignoring Crowley, “I thought ahead.” A moment later, the Metatron’s legs appeared in Crowley’s narrowed field of vision, their owner coming to a stop in front of him. The Metatron’s hand pressed against Crowley’s forehead next, ramming his head back against the wall so they could be certain Crowley could see them.

The Metatron held up a hand, showing Crowley a very large silver hook. Crowley gazed at it numbly, feeling more tears roll down his cheeks. The object in the Metatron’s hand could best be described as a meathook, except that it was barbed at the end like a fishhook, meaning that any attempt by Crowley to free himself from it would only dig the barb in further.

“Pl–eassse,” Crowley gasped again, his desperation mounting. “What—what do you _want?_ I—I—I’ll do anything.”

“Do I _need_ to want something?” the Metatron asked, sounding as though it was an interesting academic question, utterly indifferent to Crowley’s broken, stuttering attempt to draw another breath. “Punishing the wicked is more of a recreational sport.”

Crowley whimpered again, squeezing his eyes shut as a fresh wave of pain and fear rolled over him. He tried to reach out for Aziraphale, struggling to dredge up the strength necessary to search for his partner, pain closing in on every side.

“And you _are_ wicked,” the Metatron continued conversationally as they strolled over to the wing they had examined earlier. They grabbed the leading edge, pulling it up and open again. “No matter what colour your _feathers_ are.”

Crowley kept his eyes closed, trying and failing to find a way to brace himself against the pain he knew was coming. He felt the tip of the hook come into contact with the leading edge of his wing, beginning to push its way through his feathers towards his skin. The tip had just broken the surface—it appeared the Metatron was going to push it through slowly, likely in a sadistic attempt to elicit as many moans and whimpers from Crowley as they could—when there came a sharp, urgent rapping from the direction of the door.

The Metatron froze, hand still clamped around Crowley’s wing. Crowley pushed his eyes open, his next attempt at a breath catching in his throat. The Metatron’s face collapsed into a scowl as they pulled the hook away from Crowley’s wing and stormed over to the table. Crowley’s wing sank back to the floor, every inch of him shaking anew with relief.

The Metatron cast the hook onto the table, miracled the blood off of their hands, and marched towards the door, pushing it open and stepping outside. A burst of white light flooded the room for an instant and then vanished as the Metatron shut the door after themself.

Crowley rasped in a ragged breath and allowed himself his first real sob, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. Now that he had a moment alone, he struggled to put his weight back on his feet, his side burning and protesting every movement of his legs. He managed to do it, though, leaning his upper back against the wall for support, but even the slight movement of his shoulders pulled at his wings, grating the stakes against his bones.

Since he was no longer hanging entirely on his wrists, Crowley felt some semblance of circulation return to his fingers, which were cold and almost completely numb. They twitched uncomfortably against each other, and he felt the brush of something smooth against one of his fingers. He reached blindly for his left hand with his right, finding his wedding ring and struggling to draw courage from its familiar presence.

The sound of a raised voice came from the direction of the closed door, and an idea flashed into Crowley’s head.

“H—help,” he rasped, voice scratchy and quiet, all the strength stripped from it. He swallowed and tried again, willing his raw vocal chords to save him. “Help!” His voice warbled but it was a little louder now, falling into the deafening silence like a drop into a bucket.

“Help me!” Crowley tried again, voice growing steadily stronger. “Hel—” The door opened again and Crowley’s voice died as the Metatron slipped back inside, the door closing securely behind them.

“Most unfortunately, we shall have to continue this another time,” the Metatron said, voice sour. “Luckily, there is no rush.” They strolled over to the pinned wing on Crowley’s left side and pressed the stake in a little further, drawing a small whine from Crowley. When they were satisfied the stake wasn’t about to come free anytime soon, they strolled over and did the same to the pinned wing on Crowley’s other side.

Crowley clutched his wedding ring more tightly, clenching his teeth together and forcing himself to not make a sound as the second stake sank a little deeper into his wing, its sharp edges grinding against his bones.

The Metatron strolled back over to Crowley and looked up, eyes sweeping across the chained handcuffs keeping Crowley in place. Then the Metatron’s gaze sharpened.

“And what’s _this?”_

They reached a hand up towards Crowley’s bound wrists, and Crowley realised far too late that the Metatron had noticed his ring. He felt his breath catch as he curled his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palms.

“Oh, give it up,” the Metatron said as they began to pry Crowley’s numb fingers apart. Fear lanced through Crowley, somehow stronger than anything he’d felt so far, momentarily overcoming the pain.

“N—no,” Crowley grunted, and kicked at the Metatron’s legs with all his strength. He felt his foot knock against the Metatron’s shin, but they ignored him, their fingers still digging into the skin of Crowley’s hands. Crowley tried twisting next, gasping as the motion tore at his side and wings but continuing anyway, yanking his arms back and forth and elbowing at the Metatron’s arm as they wedged Crowley’s fingers apart.

Crowley clawed at the Metatron’s hand and resumed trying to kick them, bringing one of his good wings around and finding enough strength to ram the leading edge into their ribs, struggling to push the Metatron away any way he could.

“Now, now,” the Metatron said testily, wincing a bit under the onslaught but not appearing anything more than slightly inconvenienced.

“No!” Crowley growled again, landing a kick on the Metatron’s knee and feeling a rush of satisfaction when the Metatron had to take a half-step backwards to catch themself, hands momentarily leaving Crowley’s.

“Stop it!” the Metatron said sharply, and struck Crowley hard across the cheek with the palm of his hand. Crowley’s head jerked back and slammed into the wall, and he lost all sense of what was happening.

The next thing he registered, there was fresh pain blazing across the back of his skull and he could barely keep his eyes open, vision bleeding to red and breaths sharp and short in his chest. He hardly felt the Metatron wrench the ring Aziraphale had given him from his finger.

“Dare I believe it?” the Metatron asked, turning Crowley’s ring over in their hands. “A _wedding_ band?”

Crowley’s spinning vision straightened slightly as he forced his head up, eyes sluggishly locking onto the Metatron’s hands and spotting the flash of gold within them. “G—give—give that back.”

“Someone _married_ you?” the Metatron asked, sounding incredulous. _“You?”_

“Give—give it,” Crowley growled again, breath failing him.

The Metatron stared at him. “Oh—it wasn’t… _Aziraphale?”_ They sounded disgusted. They took a moment, apparently enjoying the angry shade of red Crowley’s face had turned.

“Well, you will most definitely _not_ be needing this,” the Metatron said, raising the ring so that Crowley could see it better, trapped between their thumb and forefinger.

“Don’t you—don’t you _fucking touch that,”_ Crowley snarled, shaking with anger and straining forward, the handcuffs digging into his wrists and his wings pressing against the stakes.

“What?” the Metatron asked, still holding Crowley’s ring. “As though you deserve it. Marriage is a sacred covenant, and you _defile_ it.” And they began to press their fingers together, bending the ring out of shape.

“You—you motherfu—” Crowley was shaking with anger, more livid than he had been in decades, letting his pain fuel his rage as he strained against his bonds even harder.

The Metatron’s fingers drew closer together, the ring beginning to redden as its circular shape collapsed. And then, before Crowley’s very eyes, the ring darkened until it was nearly black and then simply vaporised. The Metatron turned their hand and brushed their fingers off, nothing but a few black flakes fluttering free.

Crowley stared at the flakes in equal parts horror and fury. A sob grew in his chest, sending pain from his side tearing through him anew.

“There,” the Metatron said, sounding quite satisfied with themself. They swept their eyes over Crowley one last time and then turned for the door. When Crowley didn’t respond, still gazing down at the scorched remains of his most precious possession, the Metatron only gave a short, satisfied laugh, and left.

For the first couple of seconds after the door slammed closed, Crowley just stared down at the floor, feeling absolutely gutted. Then his anger, so hard to sustain, began to fade, and the pain rushed in to fill the void.

Crowley drew a shaking breath and let out an unrestrained sob, breaking into a fresh round of shivers that seemed equally the product of pain, fear, and frustration. He wanted nothing more than to sink to the floor and curl into a ball, but he couldn’t do even that, sagging in his bonds as the pain in his wings mounted.

He reached out unsteadily for Aziraphale, hoping desperately to draw some shred of comfort from his partner’s familiar presence. It took him a few long, gasping moments, but he finally found the faint impression of his angel, almost lost amid his own pain and fear. Crowley latched on straight away, clinging to the fragment of Aziraphale’s soul tucked away inside his own as though his life depended on it.

And, in a way, it did. He knew he stood no chance of escaping here on his own, not without his powers. He might have been able to make a run for it if he were at least freed from his bonds, but he had tried so hard to wrench his wings from these stakes the last time he had been here, and he knew it was just as hopeless now as it had been then. But Aziraphale had saved him then, rescued him from this dreadful place that had stalked Crowley’s nightmares for decades, and surely Aziraphale would save him again.

“Pl—pleassse,” Crowley gasped, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling more tears already welling up under his lids. “Zira—Azira—Ziraphale.” He threw all of his effort into reaching for Aziraphale across the soul bond, searching for a fragment of thought or emotion that wasn’t his own, something he could cling to. But though he caught that same distant impression of Aziraphale, he couldn’t feel anything besides his own pain, mounting to a crescendo.

Crowley whimpered and did his best to brace himself as the pain rushed over him anew, but his defences were quickly crumbling, his mind unable to keep up with the constant assault on his senses.

 _Aziraphale will rescue me_ , he thought shakily, grabbing onto the thought and believing it with every fibre of his being. Like Aziraphale had rescued him from Eden, so he would again, Crowley’s stalwart salvation.

 _…but what if he doesn’t know where I am?_ The thought crossed Crowley’s mind unbidden, bringing with it a wave of despair. It took Crowley a moment to battle it off, clinging to the faint impression of Aziraphale even as an unexpected bolt of pain from his broken wing shot through him, stealing his breath.

He was absolutely certain Aziraphale would do everything in his power to rescue him, but that didn’t necessarily mean there were a great deal of things _in_ Aziraphale’s power he _could_ do. Crowley’s mind drifted back to the man with the cross necklace, and he wondered if Aziraphale would be able to trace his involvement. And even if he worked out that the Metatron was behind everything, how would he know where to look for Crowley?

Crowley reached out blindly for Aziraphale again, throwing every scrap of strength he still possessed into trying to contact his partner. Then, when he felt he had as secure of a connection as he was ever going to get, pain coursing through him and scrambling his thoughts, he realised belatedly that he didn’t have any way to get a message to Aziraphale. All he had was this connection, and even if he could somehow drop a word or phrase directly into Aziraphale’s mind, he didn’t know how he would describe this place, didn’t know what it was properly called.

“A—ziraphale,” Crowley rasped brokenly, struggling to keep the connection open, unable to tell if he was even reaching Aziraphale. He didn’t know if he could convey a phrase to Aziraphale through the soul bond—he’d honestly never tried—but he did know that it conveyed emotion, and he certainly had plenty of that.

So Crowley closed his eyes and let the pain crash over him, filling every pore of his being. He focussed his attention on the throbbing in the leading joints of the two of his wings staked to the wall, trying to push that pain to the forefront of his mind.

“Like—like lassst time,” Crowley moaned, letting his defences against the fear crumble next, reminding him of what had happened here twenty-five years ago, and how he had barely left alive.

He squeezed his eyes shut and let the flashbacks overwhelm him: the bite of Samkiel’s blade into his shoulder, his screams as his feathers were ripped out, his profound relief at the moment when he had realised he was well and truly saved.

“A—zira—phale,” Crowley gasped, voice trembling. He clung to his partner with every ounce of his strength, trying to draw them as close as he possibly could, hoping the proximity would allow Aziraphale to pick up on his emotions, the same emotions he had felt last time.

Crowley kept it up for as long as he could, swamped by his own terror and directing it to Aziraphale at every turn, hoping to provide some sort of clue.

But after a few minutes he felt his grip on Aziraphale weaken as his strength flagged, and he reluctantly let him go. The pain was burning through him now, his side and broken wing slick with blood. He had never felt pain like this before, not quite to this calibre, and that was when he realised numbly that there was a very real chance he wasn’t going to make it out of this room alive.

The Metatron would return, and they would sink more blades into his skin and wings, and eventually Crowley’s besieged body wouldn’t be able to withstand the trauma anymore, and would finally give up. Even if the Metatron was delayed in returning, blood loss from the gash in his side and his broken wing would surely kill him within a day or two, if the infection didn’t return and finish him off before then. He had faith in Aziraphale, but if his partner wasn’t able to get to him in time—if he wasn’t able to interpret Crowley’s pain-addled message, or if insurmountable obstacles stood in his path—this would be the end.

Crowley closed his eyes and knew that it was true. He had barely survived this awful place once; he would not survive it again.

 _And I didn’t even_ do _anything_ , Crowley thought wretchedly to himself, pain scrambling his mind. _Again._

His thoughts went back to Aziraphale, and the fact that all he had wanted was to spend eternity with him. Crowley’s sinuses burned but he was finally all out of tears, wrung dry. His numb fingers twitched unhappily against each other, feeling the absence of his ring like another wound. All he could think about was how Aziraphale had slid it onto his finger on that wondrous day four years ago, the happiest day of his long, long life.

For a heartbeat, he considered that maybe the Metatron had been right—maybe he deserved to be strung up here, for his sins. Perhaps it had been wrong of him to want what never should have been his in the first place. But he _had_ wanted it, and he _still_ wanted it, wanted it so much his chest burned, and he truly believed there was no shame in that. He _loved_ Aziraphale, loved him with every fibre of his being, and that could not be a sin.

He only wished that he still had his ring, so that when he breathed his last he could at least leave this life with the symbol of Aziraphale’s promise on his finger, the promise that meant the world to him.

 

~~***~~

 

An angel was waiting for Aziraphale and Asterion at the edge of Heaven, standing on the white brick approach to the gates of Heaven. He moved forward as they landed, Asterion awkwardly setting Aziraphale down but keeping a hand on his shoulder, eyes on St Peter’s gates.

“We meet again, Aziraphale,” the angel said, inclining his head. Aziraphale looked him over distractedly, trying to ignore the sharp pangs of fear in his chest that told him that Crowley had regained consciousness. The angel looked vaguely familiar, broad-shouldered and appearing very calm, but he couldn’t place him.

“Remind me…?”

“I escorted Crowley the Redeemed to the council of archangels soon after his initial arrival in Heaven,” the angel supplied. “My name is Gedariah.”

“Gedariah,” Aziraphale repeated. “Yes, I remember you.” Anger had joined the fear in his chest now, and he knew time was of the essence. “Did you find Ludwig and the others?”

“Yes,” Gedariah said. “Their numbers had multiplied.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said. “They know the plan?”

“They’ll be at the armoury in a matter of minutes,” Gedariah assured him. Aziraphale nodded.

“We should move,” Asterion said, hand still on Aziraphale’s shoulder and eyes raking the battlements. “They’ve spotted us. We need to state our intentions.”

Gedariah nodded and the three of them started moving towards the gate, the two angels falling into positions flanking Aziraphale.

“Anael!” Asterion shouted towards the battlement as they approached. “Let us pass!”

An angel leaned against one of the merlon of the battlements, peering down at them. “Declare yourself!”

“It is I, Asterion!” Asterion called up. “Agent of Michael.”

It was at that moment that an incredible burst of pain exploded through Aziraphale, and he felt himself stop breathing.

“And I am Gedariah, agent of Azrael!”

The pain increased, accompanied by a barrage of shivers and a fresh surge of fear. Aziraphale tried to draw a breath but it stuck in his throat.

“And who is that with you?” Anael shouted down. “Is he human?”

A fresh spear of pain lanced into Aziraphale, and he shuddered as he realised where it was localised. “Oh, G—God.”

“He is here by the Metatron’s command!” Asterion shouted up at the battlements as Gedariah cast Aziraphale a very oblique, concerned look.

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut as the pain stabbed deeper, and he knew that Crowley’s wings were being staked to the wall again. He was vividly reminded of the last time he had been to the disused armoury, and how Crowley had screamed as Aziraphale had torn the stakes from his friend’s ravaged wings, dousing his remaining ebony feathers with blood.

“The Metatron has no dominion over humanity!” the angel on the battlements shouted down.

Aziraphale felt a tear streak down his cheek as the pain pushed deeper and then paused, Crowley’s fear and desperation closing around his chest like iron bands.

“That is why Gedariah is here,” Asterion shouted back up. “As Azrael’s representative.”

A fresh bolt of pain rocked through Aziraphale, making his knees go weak, and he knew the Metatron had moved on to another of Crowley’s wings.

“Have you cleared this with Jophiel?” Anael called.

“The Metatron does not report to _Jophiel!”_ Asterion shouted up in reply.

There was a pause in the shouting and also in the imposition of fresh agony, and Aziraphale drew a long, shaking breath.

“Are you all right?” Gedariah asked Aziraphale in an undertone.

Aziraphale shook his head slightly, feeling very unsteady on his feet. “Crowley and I—we have this bond, and—and—they’re torturing him right now.” The pain grew, tearing through him, and he had to forcefully remind himself that it was expressly part of the Metatron’s plan to _not_ kill Crowley.

Gedariah’s expression grew alarmed. “The distraction should be arriving at any second,” he assured Aziraphale quietly. “Kazariel phoned me only a few minutes before you arrived and told me that Michael had sent someone to the Metatron with an urgent summons.”

Aziraphale nodded, struggling to put aside Crowley’s emotion. By far the best way to help Crowley was by sticking to the plan, and though he knew that he had to be present in the moment for that, it didn’t stop every inch of him from wanting to break down this gate and make a beeline for Crowley at once. “I—I think they broke one of his wings,” he stammered hoarsely.

“We’ll get to him,” Gedariah promised, though his voice was taut.

“Look,” Asterion shouted up at the battlements, where another angel had joined Anael, who was pointing down at the three of them. “We need to send a messenger to the Metatron anyway, to let them know we’ve arrived. Gedariah can go. The human and I will stay here, and then the Metatron can come to collect him. Is that satisfactory?”

There was another pause, after which the angels resumed their consultation atop the battlements.

A bolt of fear hit Aziraphale next, so sharp and raw that he almost blacked out, breath evaporating.

“That is acceptable,” one of the angels shouted down. “Gedariah may pass.”

Asterion turned to Gedariah and glanced worriedly at Aziraphale as he tried to keep himself externally calm, shaking with a rage that wasn’t his own.

 _We’re coming_ , Aziraphale tried to reassure Crowley, a set of tears rolling down his cheeks. _Oh God, Crowley, we’re almost there._

“I will be swift,” Gedariah said.

“Godspeed,” Asterion told him, and Gedariah nodded and strode hastily towards the gate, which opened to admit him.

Asterion started ushering Aziraphale towards the base of the wall, where they could wait largely out of sight of the guards. “What’s happening?”

Aziraphale only shook his head, grateful for Asterion’s hand on his elbow, his legs feeling very weak. He sank to his knees next to the base of the wall as the wave of anger faded, replaced with a well of hopelessness so deep he thought he might drown in it.

“Just take a minute,” Asterion advised, the concern plain in his voice, as Aziraphale sank further onto the ground.

Aziraphale nodded and drew a breath, feeling the fear rise in him, his own mixed in now. Then he felt Crowley reach out for him, the pain mounting as Crowley strengthened the connection.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale murmured, squeezing his eyes closed. The pain increased, particularly around his wings, detached but very real, stabbing at bones Aziraphale didn’t even currently have. “My dear, I’m here.”

Aziraphale felt more tears run down his cheeks as Crowley’s pain and fear overwhelmed him, the emotions strengthening as though Crowley was trying to pour his entire self through the connection between them. Then, all of a sudden, memories that weren’t his own were flashing before Aziraphale’s eyes: disjointed snippets of white walls, Samkiel’s leering face, and then desperation, pain, fear, and an intense longing for Aziraphale, the friend he had turned himself in to protect. The snippets of memory were far too specific to Crowley’s current predicament to be coincidental, and the connection between them right now too strong for their transmission to Aziraphale to be accidental.

 _He’s trying to tell me where he is,_ Aziraphale realised in horror, more tears brimming in his eyes.

After what seemed like an eternity, the memories began to fade, Crowley just clinging to him. The pain in his side had grown, and Aziraphale actually put a hand to his own side, where Crowley had been wounded, and felt real pain of his own.

Then he remembered what Crowley had said earlier, about their lives being bound together. Crowley was dying, and that meant Aziraphale was dying right along with him, the channel between their souls widening as they lost their independence, Crowley’s fate becoming Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale tried to convey some measure of reassurance to Crowley, some hope for he who had brought hope to so many, but he couldn’t tell if his message made it past the barrage of pain.

So Aziraphale just screwed his eyes shut and tried to bear it, feeling Crowley’s desperate calls for help, calls to _him_ for help.

 _Just hang on,_ Aziraphale thought shakily. _Oh, my dear, we’re coming._

 

~~***~~

 

“What are we waiting for?” Alexander hissed as he peered out of the copse of evergreens, their needles shot through with silver. “Haniel arrived. The Metatron’s gone. Let’s go.”

“Gedariah told us to wait for him,” Ludwig shot back. “He can open the door, and that way we won’t draw everyone from miles around with a showy use of brute force.”

Alexander sniffed.

“He’s got a point, lad,” Otho said.

“It’s a lot less _foolhardy_ than your plan, too,” Beth added. “I’m telling you, you’d just make the building collapse on the poor man.”

“Are you implying that you don’t think I know what I’m doing?” Alexander asked, sounding offended. “I _have_ fought in a war, you know.”

“Who hasn’t?” Otho grumbled.

“I’m just saying, give Gedariah another minute,” Beth said defensively. “We only just got here ourselves.”

Alexander made a face but folded his arms, eyes going longingly to the small barrel of gunpowder resting at his feet.

“And another thing,” Ludwig said, turning back to survey them all. “If you’re currently alive, just stay here, all right? If we end up using Alexander’s method, you should know that he sometimes gets a little _too_ liberal with the gunpowder.”

Alexander made an offended noise and Beth frowned and folded her arms.

“We should stay here,” Bert told Ann, sounding a little anxious. “Let them handle it.”

Ann raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

“All right,” Ludwig said. “And—”

“There he is!” Alexander said quickly, the trees rustling as he slipped out of the cover of their branches.

“Stay here,” Ludwig said firmly to the assembled, and then followed Alexander, Harry hot on his heels. Otho was next to leave, and Donnie fell into step after him, slipping out of the shelter of the trees.

“Donnie!” Bert hissed.

Now freed from the trees, Donnie watched as Gedariah strode towards the small white building in front of her, Ludwig and the others sprinting towards him.

Bert ran out of the safety of the copse of trees after Donnie, his hand closing around her arm and pulling her back. “What are you doing? He said all of the living people should stay back.”

Donnie half-turned to Bert and tugged her arm free. “I know.”

Bert made another grab for her arm and caught the edge of her sleeve this time, trying to drag her back. “Then stay!”

“But I—” Donnie swallowed heavily. “I—I’m dead, Bert.”

Bert’s fingers went lax on her sleeve as he stared at her, expression uncomprehending. “Wh—what? No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” Donnie said, suddenly unable to meet Bert’s eyes. She looked at the ground instead, the grass so perfectly green. “I—I died in that—that stupid field you sent me too, in the middle of bloody Staffordshire—”

“No,” Bert said, the disbelief in his voice undisguised. “No, you couldn’t have—”

“Well, I did,” Donnie said, squeezing her eyes shut. “I—I was in Hell, Bert. And, sooner or later, they’ll be taking me back.”

“No,” Bert said again, this time sounding absolutely horrified. He moved forward, gently turned Donnie so she was facing him, and put his hands on either side of her face. “God, no.”

“I’m sorry,” Donnie said, feeling tears beginning to roll down her cheeks as she continued to evade Bert’s gaze. “I’m so sorry I did this to you too.”

“No, oh…” Bert pulled Donnie into a tight hug.

“At least you’ll have Ann, when it’s your time,” Donnie said, crying into Bert’s shoulder and hugging him back. She was so grateful for this embrace, and for this last opportunity to be with the man she loved, even though it was past her time.

“Oh, don’t—don’t say that,” Bert said, still holding her tight, his own voice thick. “We’ll—we’ll find a way to fix it, I swear. Ziraphale and Crowley—they owe me. I’ll—we’ll make sure you get to Heaven.”

Donnie sobbed harder into Bert’s shoulder, feeling a flicker of hope even though she doubted such a deal could be struck.

“We’ll figure it out,” Bert promised, his hand moving in short strokes up and down her back.

They were still like that when Harry came running up to them a few moments later. “You two were supposed to stay back,” he said, motioning at where Ann was standing hesitantly in front of the copse of trees, watching Bert and Donnie.

“Did—did you get in?” Donnie asked Harry, tearing herself reluctantly from Bert but grateful for the arm he kept around her shoulders. “Did you get Crowley?”

“The bastard updated the locks,” Harry said grimly. “It used to be that a cherub or someone from a higher choir could open it—meaning that Gedariah should have been able to—but now it won’t open. Probably either only the Metatron can open it, or only a seraph can. Alexander’s prepping the gunpowder as we speak, so you two need to get back. And _stay_ back.”

“And him?” Donnie asked, nodding towards where Gedariah was sprinting away, wings spreading behind him.

“Gone to take news of Aziraphale’s arrival to the Metatron. Michael’s distraction will only last so long, and we may need the extra time it’ll take them to fetch Aziraphale from the gatehouse before they get back here. But please—go back to the trees.”

Donnie nodded numbly and allowed Bert to draw her back to safety, arm still around her shoulders.

“We’ll get this sorted out, I swear,” Bert told her quietly. “You’re a good person; they must have made some mistake.”

Donnie shrugged, dabbing at her eyes with the end of her sleeve. Even when they reached Ann, who gave the two of them a concerned look, Bert’s arm never wavered from its place around her shoulders.


	26. The Judgment of God

“All right, Michael, what is this _urgent_ business of yours?” the Metatron snapped, striding into their office and ruffling their three sets of wings, the white feathers standing on end.

Michael gave them a cool look from where he was sitting behind the Metatron’s desk, in their chair. “You seem distressed.”

The Metatron scowled at him. “I was in the middle of something.”

“Yes, I gathered. How is it going?”

A frown creased the Metatron’s face. “Quite well. Everything is progressing according to the plan.”

“Yes,” Michael said, leaning back in the Metatron’s chair and putting his fingers on the moulded edge of the Metatron’s desk. “About that.”

The Metatron’s frown deepened. “What?” they growled.

“It has recently come to my attention that the plan may be…problematic.”

The Metatron narrowed their eyes. “In what way?”

“Oh,” Michael said, walking his fingers casually across the edge of the Metatron’s desk, “just wondering if murder is really the best option.”

The Metatron’s grey eyes searched Michael’s face for some trace of his thoughts, but the archangel’s expression was carefully blank. “You agreed to the plan,” they growled.

“So I did,” Michael allowed, eyes still on his fingers, “but then something occurred to me.”

The Metatron waited for him to elaborate, but Michael was silent. “…well?” they asked at length, irritated already at how long this was taking and itching to get back to Crowley. They really were looking forward to seeing how effective those hooks were.

Michael sighed and sat forward, propping his elbows up on the Metatron’s desk and finally meeting the Metatron’s gaze. “Did you talk to God about this plan?”

The Metatron narrowed their eyes. “There was not time for that; you know that.”

“But, generally…” Michael said. “Your position on Redemption. Presumably God spoke to you at some point, and that was why you took such an entrenched position. What did He say, exactly? Oh, and why did He choose to only talk to you about this, especially when it’s such an important issue for all of us?”

“Are you doubting my word?” the Metatron growled, folding their arms and letting their six wings slowly unfurl behind them, reminding Michael that they were seven times more powerful than he was.

“No one has heard from our Father in over a millennium,” Michael said, steepling his fingers and looking entirely unimpressed by the Metatron’s show of status. “Except you, that is. It’s a bit strange, don’t you think?”

“What are you implying?”

Michael drew his lips together. “I think you’re a fraud. I don’t think God has spoken to you at all, and I think you’re just bandying His name about as it pleases you.”

The Metatron took two steps forward, only the desk separating them now, and laid a hand on the hilt of the sword at their belt. “Those are treasonous words, Michael. Care to revoke them?”

Michael looked straight back at them, and though he had to look up to meet the Metatron’s eyes he seemed utterly unafraid. “Do you deny it?”

The Metatron scowled at Michael, trying to read the frustratingly bland expression on the archangel’s face, struggling to determine how much he knew.

When they couldn’t come to a firm conclusion, they turned and strode away, wings flexing in irritation.

“How do you live with yourself?” Michael asked. “Using our Father like that?”

The Metatron spun. _“Using_ our Father?” they echoed. “Our Father used _us_. He _left_ — _abandoned_ us all. _Someone_ had to take His place, look after Heaven.”

Michael frowned. “So you did this for yourself?”

“No,” the Metatron snapped, striding forward again. “Of course not! I did it for _Heaven._ Even the figment of a God is better than no God at all. But _you_ —you would have us forget that it was _our Father_ who cast the Fallen from Heaven in the first place. You would have us living _beside_ that—that _scum_ from the gutter! Heaven is great, and I will _not_ have it contaminated from without.”

 _“Our Father_ was the one who Felled the demons,” Michael agreed, leaning forward in the chair and planting the tip of one finger on the lacquered surface of the desk, “so surely _He_ is the one who is _unFalling_ them as well? What if this is God’s _new_ will?”

The Metatron stared at Michael, put off by the earnestness in his expression. Then they gave a short laugh and turned away, strolling back towards the fireplace. “You cannot tell me you _believe_ that nonsense they’re spreading in the streets. You used to be more sensible.” The Metatron ran their hand along the top of the mantelpiece. “Reliable, even noble. Look at you now—” They turned back to Michael. “—defending the honour of _filth_.”

Michael scowled at them. “I am defending the honour of those that are perhaps far nobler than I, and who are only filth because _we_ say that they are.”

“It is the _will of God_ ,” the Metatron snapped, voice darkening. “It is the _judgment of God.”_

“Or is it only what _you_ _say_ the will of God is?” Michael shot back. “I don’t think you know what God wants at all. But _Falling_ an angel? You are making yourself out to _be_ God. You’re no better than Lucifer.”

 _“Crowley_ is no angel,” the Metatron growled, taking a threatening step towards Michael. “You should have seen him. He doesn’t love God, as every angel should. He cares far more for that Fallen principality—it is disgusting. He has it coming, believe me.”

“That is not a decision that is yours to make,” Michael said sharply, pushing the Metatron’s chair back and standing, the chair legs scraping across the floor. “You cannot simply play God.”

The Metatron took another step closer, wings fanning out behind them. “I am the _Voice_ of God _._ _His_ will is what _I_ say it is.”

Michael started around the desk, true anger flashing across his features now, his own wings beginning to unfurl. “You are not worthy of such a title,” he spat. “You are more of a serpent than he who slithered into Eden.”

“You will regret this.”

“I don’t think I will,” Michael said, striding closer. “You don’t speak for God anymore.”

“I am _the Metatron_ ,” they snarled. “I—”

“No,” Michael snapped. “Not anymore you’re not. Just ‘Metatron’ will do. You don’t deserve the article.”

Metatron ground their teeth in anger.

“And how _dare_ you pretend to speak for our Father,” Michael continued, eyes flashing. “As the leader of the archangels, and with their authority, I hereby revoke your titles. No longer shall you be ‘you and God.’ You speak only for yourself.”

“You can’t do that,” Metatron snarled, knowing even as he said it that Michael just had.

Michael took a step closer, putting them less than a metre apart. “Can’t I?”

Metatron took the final step, putting them toe-to-toe and locking eyes with Michael. “It is such a shame that I changed the original plan,” he snarled, hand dropping to the sword at his waist, the one Oswald had delivered with Crowley’s unconscious body. “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had to do this.”

Michael realised what Metatron was about to do a heartbeat before he did it, alarm flaring in his eyes. He took a quick step backwards and threw up a magical shield, but Metatron was still a seraph, and the sword in his hand bespelled to pose a mortal threat even to angels.

Metatron thrust his hand forward and the blade of the Edenic sword plunged into Michael’s abdomen with a satisfying lurch, punching directly through his breastplate as though it were tin foil. Michael gasped, eyes first widening in shock and then dropping to the sword emerging from his stomach.

Metatron strode forward, sending Michael staggering backwards into the edge of the desk. Metatron pressed on, driving the sword deeper and eliciting a breathless wheeze of pain from Michael, shock already beginning to cloud his eyes.

“Just killing Aziraphale won’t make Crowley Fall,” Metatron hissed to Michael, reaching forward and grabbing the archangel’s chin as his head started to droop, wanting to make sure Michael heard what he had to say. “Crowley needs to commit a mortal sin in order to Fall. A revenge killing seemed awfully fitting, and you were the lamb I had lined up to slaughter.”

Michael stared at him in horror, chest fluttering as his breaths came quick and fast, skin already beading with sweat.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Metatron said, twisting the blade ever so slightly. “It is a great honour to die for the safety of Heaven. It could have been yours, but…alas.”

Michael gritted his teeth, shaking and clearly struggling to maintain consciousness, chin resting heavily on Metatron’s hand. It was so interesting, Metatron thought, how pain played havoc with the mind.

“Go—to Hell,” Michael grunted.

“Oh, I’ll see you there,” Metatron said sweetly, and drew the sword out of Michael. He stepped back and watched with interest as Michael struggled to stay upright by leaning back against the desk, one hand clamped over the wound in his abdomen. Then his legs collapsed and he crumpled to the floor, gasping in an aborted, stuttering breath. He sat there for a moment, face ashen, before listing to one side and slumping to the floor, blood already seeping between his fingers.

“Don’t forget, dear Michael,” Metatron told him, miracling the blood from the sword and sliding it back into the loop hanging from his belt, “this was your plan too.”

Then he turned on his heel and strode out of the office, leaving Michael panting and gasping for breath behind him, his lifeblood slowly spilling onto the gleaming marble floor.

 

~~***~~

 

“Sir!” Gedariah said smartly, snapping to attention as Metatron stepped out of his manor and almost collided with the dominion, who had been about to walk in.

“What?” Metatron snapped. He looked on edge, anger simmering just beneath his irritated exterior.

“I’m a guard at St Peter’s gate, sir,” Gedariah lied, “and there’s an angel who just arrived with a human whose presence he says you requested.”

Metatron’s expression brightened, and it turned Gedariah’s stomach a little. “Excellent.” He started away from the manor and then stopped when he realised Gedariah hadn’t moved. “And you are again…?”

“Gedariah,” Gedariah supplied. “Under Jophiel.” This last was not true in the slightest, and Gedariah felt a small rush of adrenaline at indulging in the forbidden activity. He would never have considered even doing such a thing as lying—especially to a seraph and therefore a superior—a few short years ago, but he had been spending an awful lot of time with Kazariel lately, and her rebellious nature was beginning to rub off. “I am to take the message to Michael as well.”

“Ah,” Metatron said, looking back at Gedariah. “He just left.”

Gedariah considered this. “Which way did he go?”

“I’m not sure,” Metatron replied. “He said he had urgent business to attend to. Thank you for bringing the message.”

“Of course, sir,” Gedariah said, and gave a shallow bow.

Metatron nodded and started down the white brick avenue. When he was several paces away, he shook open his three pairs of white wings and took to the sky.

Gedariah waited until he was gone before starting off down the path as well, pulling out the mobile communications device Kazariel had given him and checking the time on it. What Metatron had said about Michael leaving on urgent business was almost certainly a lie, but he didn’t have time to ponder it further, as he was already running slightly late to his rendezvous with Kazariel.

“Stay safe, Michael,” Gedariah said under his breath, and spread his own wings for flight.

 

~~***~~

 

“She’s here,” Zephrades said, voice caught between dread and excitement. His pace had slowed considerably as they’d neared the cell that housed Cadriya ishtu Sodom, the first soul Zephrades had ever damned. Now he just looked miserable, appearing almost nauseous as the moment to atone for his mistake finally arrived.

They had passed thousands of personal hells on their way here, screams, sobs, and cries for help resonating through the hallways, and though it pained Golgoth to leave them there, they didn’t have the time to rescue them all now.

“What should I do?” Zephrades asked, looking suddenly very unsure of himself as his gaze moved nervously from the iron door to Golgoth, seeking help.

“Save her,” Golgoth said.

“But—but what should I say to her?” he asked. “What if she—”

Golgoth put his hands on Zephrades’s shoulders and the other demon broke off, looking very unsure of himself and like he would much rather be anywhere else. “Have faith, Zephrades. You can do this.”

Zephrades looked unconvinced but nodded nonetheless, and when Golgoth motioned towards the door he reluctantly took a step towards it. He hesitated for a moment, eyes shut, and then took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped into Cadriya’s hell.

Usually when they retrieved souls, they just opened the door and called a few words in. The portal to another world this opened in the personal hell was almost always enough incentive in and of itself for the soul to seek escape, and they emerged, dazed and frightened, into the corridor. Unlike Heaven, which had a very complex and well-designed network of sigils powering the individual heavens, Hell had a slapdash collection, an imitation of Heaven’s based on half-remembered glances and then perverted so as to provide a soul with an eternity of torments tailored to their experiences on Earth. Fortunately for the souls, this sloppy replication meant that the hells weren’t terribly imaginative, and didn’t have the ability to morph into new, fresh torments. They also couldn’t sustain themselves without their inhabitant, vanishing like mist to reveal the grimy walls of the cell the soul had truly been trapped in.

Zephrades had only been inside of a few hells in the course of retrieving souls to be saved, but what greeted him now was so much more horrific than anything he’d seen so far.

It looked like the sky was falling.

Fire was raining down like hail, chunks of sulphur hitting the street and exploding, whipping a yellow haze into the air. It was unbelievably hot, the hairs on the backs of Zephrades’s arms threatening to vaporise and his feathers prickling uncomfortably.

He was standing in the middle of a street, low mudbrick houses on either side of him. He didn’t spare them a glance, though, eyes immediately riveting themselves ahead of him, where there was something that could only be described as a tornado of fire. It was absolutely massive, at least a quarter of a mile in diameter, flames swirling around its perimeter at unbelievable speeds and sucking parts of houses up into its vortex.

Zephrades stood paralysed in terror, staring up at the massive cyclone and knowing that he was witnessing the wrath of Heaven. He might have stood there for a good while longer, just staring at the tornado of fire in shock and disbelief, except that the wind brought a fragment of a cry to his ears. It was barely audible over the crashing of the sulphurous rocks onto the street, the sound of buildings collapsing, and the roar of the tornado, but he recognised it as a human voice all the same.

His eyes dropped from the vortex, searching through the yellow fog as more burning rocks crashed to the ground around him, leaving long streaks of grey and yellow smoke hanging in the air. He caught sight of Cadriya then, pushing her way through the fog away from him, towards the vortex of fire, arms outstretched and the hem of her dress on fire.

Zephrades drew a breath and coughed when it caught in his throat, the smoke acrid and thick. He looked over his shoulder at where the door to Hell lay open, just a simple rectangle showing the blank corridor wall, a solitary beacon of calm amongst the chaos of the burning Sodom. Then he turned back around, eyes locking on the shape crying out in the midst of the calamity.

He started forward, throwing a quick shield up over his head to knock away the flaming missiles streaming towards from from the sky. The street was already thick with ash and rubble, and Zephrades’s boots dragged through the grey blanket as he trudged forward. A blast of hot air hit him head on, blowing embers into his eyes and clearing the smoke from the air, and he was forced to look away briefly, a layer of soot settling onto his skin and coating his feathers.

“Paebel!” a voice came to him on the wind, and Zephrades’s stomach lurched.

“Keret! Athirat!” the voice continued, hoarse and desperate, and Zephrades realised with a sudden flash of horror that he _recognised_ those names. Paebel, Keret, Athirat: they had been Cadriya’s children. Zephrades had invoked their names often, using dire visions of their futures as justification to attack others.

Zephrades forced himself to keep moving forward, breaths growing tight in his chest as the air grew choked with smoke again. “Cadriya!” he shouted when he was only a few metres away from her. He tried to take another step forward but a second blast of air rushed down the street towards him, forcing him to take a step back to steady himself as the tornado of fire broadened, its dull roar growing louder.

Cadriya turned towards him then, her hair flying out around her, every strand highlighted in turn as a sulphuric meteorite streaked by. Her face was cast first with blue light, and then orange, and finally in shadow as the flaming missile passed her, leaving a dark, sooty trail hanging in the air behind it. And, despite the millennia that had elapsed, Zephrades found that he recognised her, recognised the face of the first soul he had ever tempted.

“Cadriya!” Zephrades shouted again, struggling to move forward against the headwind, heart tightening. When he was only a metre away, the tear tracks on Cadriya’s cheeks standing out against her soot-blackened face, Zephrades threw out his hand. “Come with me!”

For a moment Cadriya just looked at him, eyes heavy with grief and despair, and then she reached out and took his hand.

Zephrades tightened his grip on her hand and turned to draw her away, hearing a gasp of shock as she saw his wings. But her hand stayed in his, and Zephrades pulled her back towards the dark rectangle that was the only exit from this waking nightmare.

“Who are you?” Cadriya screamed at him as the roar of the tornado of fire increased. The cyclone, which had been moving steadily closer, annihilated another row of buildings, the updraft tearing the wooden beams from their moorings and sucking them up into the vortex.

But then they were at the door, and Zephrades had never been more grateful to set foot in Hell. Behind him, he heard the roar of the tornado abruptly cease, all the heat and sulphur vanishing from the air as quickly as they had come, leaving him shaking and still covered with soot but otherwise unharmed, Cadriya’s hand gripped tightly in his own.

“Oh dear,” Golgoth said. Zephrades turned to him and saw Golgoth giving the pair of them a once-over. Zephrades glanced behind himself into the cell and saw only an empty, unfurnished room a few paces across, its stone walls dark and grimy.

Zephrades took an unsteady breath and turned to Cadriya, who was staring around them in confusion.

“Wha—what?” she stammered, looking back into the cell as well. “I—I don’t—”

Zephrades released her hand and distractedly brushed the soot from his arms, uncertain what he was supposed to do next.

Cadriya turned to him, visibly shaking, her hair caked in soot and thrown into tangled strands by the wind. “Who are you?” Her eyes shifted slightly, and he knew she was looking at his wings. _“What_ are you?”

Zephrades swallowed heavily, eyes darting to Golgoth for guidance. Frustratingly, Golgoth only gave him an encouraging smile. “I…um…” Now that the moment had arrived, Zephrades couldn’t quite meet Cadriya’s eyes, remembering all too well how trusting she’d been when he had first met her, how receptive to his lies. “I look different now, but you…you know me as Zephrades.”

Cadriya blinked at him, expression uncomprehending.

“You remember,” Zephrades prompted uncertainly. “Zephrades. The merchant from Admah. I—I visited you in Sodom.”

“Yes…” Cadriya said, sounding confused. “But that—that was someone else.”

Zephrades shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I changed my shape. I—I’m a demon. Like…” He struggled to find a way to explain that she would understand. “Like Moloch or Lotan. An evil spirit.”

Cadriya’s gaze grew fixed, and she took a hesitant step away from him.

“That—that place,” Zephrades continued shakily, motioning back towards the cell. “You’ve been trapped there for several thousand years.”

Cadriya’s eyes left Zephrades for Golgoth, who stayed silent. “It—it did feel like eternity—”

“I am sorry,” Zephrades said, taking a cautious step towards her and stopping when she took a matching one back. “I visited Sodom on an unholy mission. I—I turned you against your neighbours. I planted lies in your head, and because of it Sodom burned.”

Cadriya just stared at him, expression blank with fear and disbelief.

“There was a man,” Zephrades explained wretchedly, feeling rotten to his core, “a righteous man named Lot, and though he had lived in Sodom for nearly all of his life he was shown great disrespect because he was a foreigner. God sent two angels to Sodom to test the virtue of the people there, and because both they and Lot were foreigners they were treated most unkindly. The sacred laws of hospitality were broken, and so…so Sodom burned, by divine mandate.”

Cadriya was shaking her head now, beginning to back down the corridor away from Zephrades. “You—but _you_ _told_ _me_ all foreigners were untrustworthy!”

Zephrades stared after her helplessly. “I…I lied.”

Cadriya shook her head again, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. “My—my children _burned_ because of you, you—monster! Spawn of Moloch.” She practically spat the last three words.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Zephrades tried, but she had already turned away, stumbling down the corridor away from him.

He took a few steps after her and hesitated, feeling awful. When she had vanished around a bend in the corridor, he turned back to Golgoth, unable to put anything he was feeling into words. He had failed.

“Well, what are you still doing here?” Golgoth asked. “Go after her, you fool.”

Zephrades fixed his eyes on Golgoth’s shoulder, his sense of unworthiness reaching all the way to his core. He shook his head.

“Oh, come now,” Golgoth chided, taking him by the shoulders and turning him so that he was facing down the corridor in the direction Cadriya had gone. “Go talk to her some more.” And he gave Zephrades a little push.

Zephrades thought Cadriya had made it pretty clear that she didn’t want to speak with him, but he forced himself to walk forwards anyway. When he rounded the bend in the corridor, he was surprised to find Cadriya only a few metres away, slumped against the corridor wall and sobbing.

He approached cautiously, stomach tying itself in knots. “Um, hi.”

Cadriya’s head snapped around and she glared at him for a moment, eyes red. She retreated a few more steps down the corridor, sniffling loudly.

“I—it’s been a long time since Sodom burned,” Zephrades said, not attempting to follow her further and instead studying the rock wall. “Millennia. I—what I did then was wrong. I shouldn’t have put those lies into your head, shouldn’t have encouraged you to break the laws of hospitality. That’s why you’ve been here, punished for eternity, instead of spending these last millennia in paradise. And I…” He looked at the ground. “I do not expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know that I am very sorry.”

Zephrades bit his lip, feeling that anything he could possibly say would be so woefully inadequate. He couldn’t begin to imagine what she had been through, what it must have felt like to spend millennia in that vivid memory of a burning Sodom, always choking on ash, always calling out for children that never materialised. They had been so sweet, her children. When Zephrades had left, they had been cruel.

There was a long silence, and when Zephrades risked a glance up it was to see Cadriya eyeing him cautiously, as though debating whether to run again.

“I am sorry I could not save you earlier,” Zephrades said, the honesty bare in his voice. “But I promise you, you will not be returning to that place. You will be going to paradise.”

Cadriya gave a short, stuttering nod, and he realised she was still shaking.

Zephrades took a half-step closer, wanting to comfort her but not knowing how. Wanting to _do_ something for her instead of just spout useless assurances, something that might actually make amends. He remembered the desperation in her voice as she had called out for her children, and an idea tentatively presented itself to him.

“I—I can help you find your children,” he ventured, and Cadriya’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “I remember them—Paebel, Keret, and musical Athirat. If they are in this land, I can find them.”

Cadriya stared at him in astonishment, and in that moment Zephrades truly understood what Golgoth meant about hope. It blossomed in her eyes so slowly, her soul so hesitant to accept the emotion it had been starved of for millennia, like water dripping onto drought-hardened ground. “Tr—truly?” she stammered. “You can find them? You would help me?”

Zephrades took another hesitant step closer, wings ruffling nervously behind him. “I will. I—I put myself in your service. I have done you a great wrong, and I will do whatever is necessary to put it right.”

Cadriya looked at him closely, the hope beginning to strengthen in her eyes. “You are no creature of Moloch, are you?”

Zephrades averted his eyes. “I might as well be.”

“No,” she said, taking a short step closer. “You are too kind.”

Zephrades shook his head.

“Zephrades,” Golgoth’s voice said from behind him, tone warm.

Zephrades turned, looking away from Cadriya and back at Golgoth, who was smiling at him. “What?”

Golgoth pointed.

Zephrades looked back around at Cadriya, wondering what he was missing, and froze as he caught a glimpse of a sliver of white out of the periphery of his vision. “No…”

He spun to one side, flaring out his wings and staring at the nearest one in shock. And there, right on the tip of his jet-black wing, sat a long feather that was impossibly light grey in colour. Zephrades reached out to touch it, sinuses burning, and brushed the faint coating of soot from his feather. Underneath, the vanes were white—a brilliant, iridescent white that he had longed to see for so long.

He checked the other wing and saw the same phenomenon there, his first primary a splash of white against the sea of black. There were so many feathers left to go—oh, so many—but he had started. After all this time, it had turned out that he was Redeemable after all. The thought left him lightheaded with relief, and he turned back to the puzzled Cadriya and drew her into a hug.

“I—um,” Cadriya said, and Zephrades hastily let her go.

“I will help you find your children,” he told her again, voice brimming with joy. “I swear it.” And then he turned back to where Golgoth was still smiling at him and threw his arms around him as well, unable to believe that, after all this time, he had finally turned a feather.

 _“Thank you,”_ he said, arms tight around the only demon who had ever given him a second chance, and who had taken him in as a friend when he’d had every right to cast him away. _“Thank you so much.”_

When he pulled back, sniffling, Golgoth kept his hands on Zephrades’s shoulders, holding him steady. “There,” he said, giving the side of Zephrades’s face an affectionate pat. “See? Now I have brought hope even to you.”

Zephrades gave a choked laugh. “I—I suppose you have.”

Golgoth nodded, a weak smile on his face. “Today is your victory,” he said, “but I’m afraid I may shed the tears you cannot.”

Zephrades blinked at him in confusion, and then quickly turned his gaze to Golgoth’s wings, where every feather gleamed a brilliant white. Zephrades knew that last few black ones he had left were right up against his back, out of Zephrades’s current line of sight, but when he returned his gaze to Golgoth’s face he saw a tear streak down his friend’s cheek, and knew what must have happened.

“Did you—did you just—?” Zephrades couldn’t bring himself to say the word, in case it wasn’t true.

But Golgoth only nodded, another tear rolling down his face. He reached up to wipe it from his cheek and then just stared at his fingers, looking as though he might weep more, just for the sheer joy of it.

“That’s—that’s—” Zephrades took a deep breath. “That’s amazing, but I…I suppose you’ll be going?”

Golgoth drew a steadying breath and took his other hand off of Zephrades’s shoulders, Cadriya hovering a few paces away, looking very confused. “Yes, I must.”

“But…how will I turn the rest of my feathers?” Zephrades asked, fear lancing through him. “Without you, how will I know what to do?” He felt like he’d been floundering in the dark for so long, following Golgoth’s voice, and though he had finally found a light, it was still so very dark, and he didn’t know if he could do it alone.

“I’ll be back,” Golgoth said reassuringly, tears still rolling down his cheeks. “But you do not need me, Zephrades. You never have.”

“But I—I _do,”_ Zephrades protested.

“No, you don’t,” Golgoth said, putting his hand on Zephrades’s neck. “That feather turned because of _you_ , not me. Go with Cadriya, and do what you think is right. That is all any of us can do.”

“How can you be so certain?” Zephrades asked, devastated.

“Oh, you know me,” Golgoth said, moving his hand to Zephrades’s shoulder and giving it a parting squeeze. “I have hope.”


	27. The Valley of the Shadow of Death

Crowley rasped in another breath, whole body shaking with exertion.

Never, not even when his damaged serpentine body had been put into the hands of the veterinarians or when he had been burning with fever in Eden, had he feared death like this.

He could feel himself beginning to wind down, each breath tearing more out of him than it gave, more blood dribbling down his ruined wings and side with every heartbeat.

He had given up fighting and didn’t even have the strength to try to contact Aziraphale anymore, just hanging limply in his bonds and slowly losing feeling in his limbs. He’d even started hearing faint whispers a little while ago, muffled voices murmuring to him that this was the end, and that his brain would be shutting down soon.

It was all he could do in the meantime to cling to the memory of Aziraphale, the distraction providing some modicum of comfort and refuge from the pain. So he thought about how much he loved Aziraphale, and how much he had loved sharing his life with him, and how sorry he was that it was going to end like this. Because if Crowley succumbed, he wouldn’t just be leaving this world—he’d be taking Aziraphale with him. And as far as he knew, there would be nothing waiting for them on the other side, nothing for an angel killed without his powers and a human who’d already had one shot at the afterlife.

His only hope was that maybe their bound souls would draw them together when Crowley passed from this world, taking them to Death together. Maybe he would be able to see Aziraphale again, before Death unmade them, and tell him one last time how much he loved him.

It was the broken, dying hope of a person on the brink of losing everything, but it was all Crowley had left, and he clung to it.

Crowley inadvertently twitched one of his wings and whimpered as a fresh spear of pain thrilled through his weakened body. The temptation to just give up was so strong, offering him a chance to maybe see Aziraphale again and then permanently escape the pain by sinking into a long, untroubled sleep where he would never have to worry about anything ever again. He had always liked sleeping, and if Death let him and Aziraphale hold each other when he unravelled their souls, then maybe it really wouldn’t be so bad after all.

But whenever his thoughts trailed that way he forced himself to draw another breath, as long and deep as he could, and fix his thoughts on the current, living Aziraphale instead. At the hospital in Tabriz, Aziraphale had told him that he was brave, brave for having clung to life even when it hurt. But Crowley hadn’t felt brave then, and he didn’t feel brave now. He felt like his insides were being ripped out, and like he was going to go out of this wonderful world all alone, nailed to this godforsaken wall and without even the breath to grieve for all that he was about to lose.

He was trying to draw another choked breath, feeling like he was dragging nettles across his lungs, when there was a terrifically loud _bang!_ and half of the building exploded.

Bricks and fragments of stone pelted Crowley’s pinned left wing, and he only barely raised one of his unhurt wings in time to shield his body as a rather large chunk sailed past his head. Something hit the stake holding his extended wing in place and knocked it an inch or so to one side, sending a wave of pain crashing over Crowley and knocking the breath from his chest.

“I _told_ you that was too much!” a voice said, rather loudly, over the clattering of blocks of stone tumbling over each other.

Crowley lowered his protective wing slowly, struggling to take a breath as the pain from his pinned wing struck deeper, accompanied by the feeling of more blood pouring down his feathers. He managed to suck in a half-breath, head spinning, and coughed wretchedly when he inhaled a mouthful of white smoke. The room was entirely filled with it, a thick, cloying white smoke tasting of gunpowder and stone dust. But there was a brightness to his left, where the side wall of the building had apparently vanished.

He drew breath to ask who was there, feeling desperately for Aziraphale, but only coughed again, the smoke searing in his lungs and tearing at his abdomen. Fresh pain was lancing up his other wings now, smaller aches caused by the impacts of the lumps of stone, but they paled in comparison to the waves still crashing over him from his extended left wing.

“Crowley?” a voice called, and though it was familiar he couldn’t place its owner.

Crowley coughed again, chest tight and head spinning, and a heartbeat later a figure emerged through the parting smoke in front of him, waving a blue-clad arm.

“Lu— _Ludwig?”_ Crowley coughed in surprise, and then lost a breath as a wave of relief crashed over him.

“Greetings,” Ludwig said, and then froze when he saw the state Crowley was in. “Mein _Gott_ , are you all right?”

Crowley could only gasp at Ludwig in relief, eyes burning at the thought of rescue.

“Ah, that was probably a stupid question,” Ludwig said, and was joined a moment later by Alexander Hamilton, his russet coat coated in white dust. He grimaced when he saw Crowley.

“Is—is Aziraphale with you?” Crowley asked hopefully, painfully aware of how weak his voice was. He tried feeling for his partner again, hands twitching in the handcuffs and eyes scanning the clouds of dust, but he couldn’t find him nearby.

“No, but he sent us,” Alexander said, stepping forward and sweeping his eyes up to Crowley’s bound hands. “How do we get you down?”

It took Crowley a moment to respond, his thoughts scrambling as pain and relief waged war in his head. His wings bore the most serious injuries, and they itched to be freed from the wall at the earliest available opportunity, but he knew that he would likely black out if one of the stakes was removed. “The—the handcuffs,” he said, jerking his head upwards and feeling a wave of dizziness crash over him at the movement. He tilted his head back against the wall, trying to keep his eyes open, breaths laboured. “Can—can you get them off?”

Ludwig turned. “Harry!”

Harry Houdini emerged from the still-clearing smoke a moment later, picking through the rubble with Otho at his heels. “You call that a _controlled_ explosion, Alexander?”

“It did the job,” Alexander said, a tad huffily. “We need your help with those handcuffs Aziraphale was talking about.”

“No problem,” Harry said, and then his voice grew surprised as he saw Crowley. “Oh, damn.”

“Jussst…just get the cuffs off,” Crowley said weakly, eyes flitting shut as the pain from his wings began to really sink in, threatening to drag him under. “I can—heal myself then.”

“Straight away,” Harry said, stepping closer and looking up at Crowley’s wrists. Unfortunately, though, Harry was rather short, and Crowley’s wrists, pulled above his head, were several inches out of reach. Harry turned back to the others. “Could one of you…”

“Pleassse,” Crowley rasped quietly, feeling fresh blood rolling down his pinned left wing as his dizziness increased, his vision beginning to bleed to static. “Hurry.”

“Here,” Otho said, folding his fingers and forming a step so he could give Harry a leg up. Harry’s head passed Crowley’s a moment later, putting his chest in Crowley’s narrowed field of vision as the escape artist put one hand on the wall above Crowley to steady himself. He examined the cuffs for a brief moment and then reached to his belt, where he withdrew a small, rectangular piece of metal with several narrow lock picks emerging from it. Crowley stared ahead dazedly, too overcharged with pain to even feel relief anymore.

“It’s a good thing for you,” Harry said, Crowley’s handcuffs jiggling slightly, “that I’ve never seen a pair of handcuffs I couldn’t spring.”

There was a loud click from above Crowley’s head, and a heartbeat later Crowley felt his powers flow back into him like a river bursting through a newly broken dam. He gasped with the shock of it, and for a moment he could only shake with relief as he realised that he was truly saved.

Then he had the presence of mind to funnel his power into his damaged body, feeling the edge of the pain immediately dull. His legs gave out as his weight started to sink back onto them, arms searing as they fell from the position they’d been locked in for the better part of an hour.

“Hey, hey, that’s not a good idea,” Harry said quickly, and Crowley registered that Harry was back on the ground and awkwardly keeping him upright with one hand on his chest and the other on his arm.

Crowley sucked in a shaking breath and savoured the feeling of his power sinking into his battered body, erasing the stiffness and numbness in his arms but only partially clearing the fog in his mind.

“W—wings,” Crowley said hoarsely, pouring his power into his pinned wings and feeling a pang of frustration when the stakes stubbornly resisted his attempts to miracle them free. “Pull the—get the stakes out,” he gasped, wings trembling as he struggled to pull them free himself.

There was a moment of silence, and then Ludwig started towards Crowley’s right wing, rubble clacking underfoot. “Um…how?” Ludwig’s voice asked.

“Just—out,” Crowley said impatiently, brimming with power and feeling it clashing with his pain, eager to be rid of it. “I don’t care how.” He found his feet and leaned back against the wall, sucking in deep breaths and feeling them pull at the gash in his side. Harry cautiously removed his hand from Crowley’s chest and hovered nearby, looking like he didn’t trust Crowley not to collapse at any moment.

“…okay,” Ludwig said after a further series of clanks. Alexander went to help him and Crowley felt Ludwig lay a hand on the leading edge of his wing, next to the stake.

Crowley’s breaths doubled in panic, a painful memory surfacing, but he only squeezed his eyes shut. “Just pull it straight out,” he directed, feeling the stake quiver slightly as Ludwig wrapped his hand around its base, the sharp edges grating against the delicate bones of Crowley’s wing.

“Sorry,” Ludwig said, voice tight, and he tore the stake out.

Crowley screamed as he felt the metal leave his wing, and then gasped breathlessly as blood began to gush out of the hole in his wing at an alarming rate, matting his feathers. He started to automatically retract his wing and immediately regretted it, nausea hitting him so fast his vision blurred to static. He hastily swamped his power over the injury instead and gasped again, this time in relief, as he felt the pain dim. A few moments later, his wing felt sore but very whole.

When his vision steadied, he saw all four of his rescuers staring at him in shock and worry, Harry’s hand only a few inches from his shoulder in case he should collapse.

“Th—thanksss,” Crowley gasped out, and turned his head to his other side. His extended left wing was still pinned to the wall, and he was forcibly reminded of the third of his injured wings, the one Metatron had broken. It was crumpled limply against his side, the tips of the feathers half-buried under debris. That one would have to wait until last; Crowley felt a wave of tingles pass through him at the thought of how much shifting it would hurt. “Can you—could you—get the other one?” He jerked his head at his pinned wing.

Ludwig looked down at the silver stake in his hand, slick with Crowley’s blood and with a few bits of skin and feather sticking to it, and quickly dropped it.

“I’ll do it,” said Otho, who seemed to have the best control of his stomach just then. Alexander again went to help, while Ludwig turned a delicate shade of green.

“Put your hand there,” Alexander directed as they clambered over the rocks towards Crowley’s pinned wing. “Just hold him still, and I’ll pull it out.”

Crowley closed his eyes again, holding his magic at the ready and bracing himself as best he could.

He half-swallowed the scream this time as he felt the stake lurch out of his muscle, but then it caught on something. He distantly heard Alexander swear as the stake scraped past his bone a second time, wrenching a moan from Crowley. Then it finally tore free, sending a wave of pain crashing over him. He fended it off with a matching surge of magic and rasped in a series of scratchy breaths as he felt the pain gradually decrease.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked worriedly as Crowley sank back against the wall, his vision slowly clearing and head beginning to straighten. He turned his gaze down to his broken wing, the last one remaining to be healed.

“I need—need to fix that one,” Crowley rasped, letting his freed wings droop away from the wall and begin to half-fold, drawing nearer to the perceived safety of his shoulders.

The four humans looked at the wing Crowley had indicated, blood-soaked and mangled as it slumped against Crowley’s leg.

“I’m going to step forward,” Crowley said, drawing deep breaths and feeling his vision clear further, “and then you need to straighten it out.”

“…straighten it out?” Harry echoed, looking a bit nauseous at the thought.

“I can’t—can’t heal it like this,” Crowley said, his head still spinning. He put one of his hands to his forehead to try to banish the pain, his sore shoulder protesting the motion. “The bones need to meet up.”

There was a short silence and then Alexander said, “Okay.”

Crowley flicked his eyes to Harry and he obligingly moved out of the way. Crowley drew a deep breath and took two shaking steps forward, angling his other wings away from his injured one. He poured a bit of power into his injured wing, afraid to heal it too much while the bones were still broken, lest healing it incorrectly rendered it unusable.

When he was three paces away from the wall his broken wing started to protest the movement, the tips of his feathers pulling against the bits of rubble they were still trapped under. Crowley slowed to a stop and took as deep of a breath as he could, flaring or folding his other wings to give his broken one more space.

“Could you—it’s—it’s stuck—” Crowley said haltingly, his breath catching, and he heard Ludwig and Otho move forward to shift the rubble away. When he felt the pressure on the tips of his feathers release, he took another shaky step forward and sank to his knees.

As he moved towards the floor, he felt something in his wing shift, and a spear of pain lanced through his shoulder and into his chest. He fell forward before he could steady himself, catching himself on the rocks and gasping in a stuttering breath.

“Sss—ssstraighten it out,” Crowley gasped.

The rocks around him clattered and a moment later he felt hands cautiously touching the mangled remains of his wing. They lifted the broken segment of his wing, the movement sending white-hot pain shooting into Crowley's chest.

Crowley moaned and felt himself start to collapse, arms just barely keeping himself from sinking down against the rocks. The pain steadied after a moment, and Crowley registered that they were waiting to make sure he was all right before continuing.

“Jussst—just do it,” Crowley hissed, sucking in an uneven breath and feeling tears pricking at his sinuses. “For the love of—”

His wing moved and Crowley lost all sense of where he was as his vision completely whited out, pain burning along every nerve and whisking away his consciousness for a moment.

He was back far too soon, pushing himself up off the chunks of stone and trembling all over. His broken wing was on fire, shooting agony into him with every passing second.

“Are—isss—” Crowley tried, voice an octave too high and trembling.

“Stop moving!” Otho’s voice demanded sharply, and Crowley registered dimly that his wing was shaking quite strongly, fresh pain tearing into him with each twitch of the damaged muscle.

Crowley tried to do as he was directed, gritting his teeth and struggling to still himself as he stared down at his hands, fingers splayed over the rock-strewn floor before him. His eyes went to his left hand and locked onto the faint strip of lighter-coloured skin on his ring finger.

There was an incredible burst of pain from Crowley’s wing and he nearly blacked out again, vision tunnelling so that the only thing he could see was his unadorned finger.

“Got it!” Alexander’s voice said.

Crowley tried to determine by feel alone if the bone was lined up correctly, but he couldn’t tell over all the pain and didn’t trust himself to look over his shoulder without collapsing completely. He took it on faith and poured his power into his wing, groaning as he felt the muscle knit itself back together, tendons reattaching and the shattered fragments of his bones fusing back together.

The pain arched higher, Crowley gripping the fragments of stone under his hands until his knuckles went white and focussing all of his effort on remaining conscious. After what felt like an eternity, the pain began to recede. When it had mostly gone, Crowley poured his power over every inch of his body again, pulling the aches from his muscles and miracling the blood from his skin, clothes, and feathers. A few long seconds later, his head finished clearing and he fully registered that he was on all fours on the rock-strewn floor of the dreadful white room, wings arched above him. He was still very tired and unnaturally warm, and when he shifted slightly he felt the pain in his side, almost familiar now.

Crowley climbed unsteadily to his feet, reeling his wings in and folding them behind him. He pressed a hand to his bandaged side as his head spun slightly, guessing that he had pulled most if not all of his stitches. He turned his attention back to his four rescuers, still shaking with the afterimage of the pain of the last few hours.

“Where—where’sss Aziraphale?” Crowley slurred, feeling unsteady. “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” Ludwig supplied, looking at Crowley in alarm. “Are _you_ all right?”

“Mo—mossstly,” Crowley hissed. He glanced down at his side again and grimaced, knowing that he ought to get new stitches as soon as possible, preferably by a professional. The thought seemed so optimistic that he felt a giddy smile cross his face; he really was going to get out of here after all. He reached for Aziraphale through the soul bond and found him in a matter of moments. Concern and worry surged over him all at once, and Crowley’s sinuses started to burn as he felt Aziraphale’s reassuring presence, so sharp and clear now that his body wasn’t racked with pain. He tried to send a message of reassurance to Aziraphale, pouring all of his relief and gratitude into the connection and hoping that his partner would be able to sense that he had been healed and therefore rescued.

“Aziraphale sent us,” Harry said, taking a step forward. “He has a plan to expose the Metatron.”

 _The Metatron_ , Crowley remembered, a bolt of fear going through him. He glanced hastily around the room and spied the freedom of Heaven’s brilliant green grass only a few metres away, where one of the side walls of the small building had once stood. “We need to get out of here,” he said urgently, taking a step towards it.

“We have some time,” Ludwig said, raising a hand and moving to intercept Crowley. “Michael’s providing a distraction.”

“Michael?” Crowley echoed, his fingers nervously rubbing the place on his ring finger where his wedding band had been. “What’s he got to do with it?”

“We’ll explain,” Harry said. “Here’s the plan.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Are you sure Grandad is over here?” Thomas asked uncertainly, trailing after his father.

“Shh,” Adam shushed, striding cautiously towards the manor house sitting alone in the sea of brilliant grass, fenced in by an impeccably trimmed hedge.

“I’m sure Dad knows what he’s doing,” Annabelle told Thomas importantly.

“Shh,” Adam said again, motioning for them to be quiet with one hand. The manor appeared still and empty, no smoke rising from either of the chimneys and no lights visible from the interior. The prickling in his mind told him that the Metatron had been here, though—or perhaps that he would be.

Adam moved closer, trying to keep his footsteps silent but all too aware of his two children trudging loudly after him. Henry, at least, was quiet, fast asleep in one of Adam’s arms with his head on Adam’s shoulder.

When they reached the door of the manor, Adam stopped and cast a careful glance around the surrounding hillsides, looking for any sign of movement. Once he had convinced himself that they were alone, he squatted down, carefully rubbed Henry’s back until he woke groggily, and set him down.

“I’m not actually looking for Grandad right now,” Adam told them. “There’s someone very dangerous I’m trying to find, so I can stop them.”

“A bad guy!” Annabelle said, brightening. “I wanna—”

“No,” Adam said. “I don’t want any of you getting hurt, do you understand?” He turned his gaze on each of the three of them in turn, and then settled it on Thomas, the eldest. “Thomas, you’re in charge. Make sure you all stick together and stay out of trouble, okay?”

Thomas looked disappointed but nodded.

“Okay,” Adam said, straightening up and putting his hand on the handle of the manor’s front door. He twisted the knob and pushed the door open, revealing a wood-panelled hallway stretching along the front of the building and an elegant staircase lying straight ahead. He took a cautious step forward and glanced down the hallway both ways. The door at the end of the hallway on the right was open, light spilling from beyond it onto the hallway’s gleaming wooden floor. He started towards it.

He was several metres down the hallway when he realised that Thomas, Annabelle, and Henry were following him.

Adam sighed and turned back to them, giving Thomas a stern look. He did have to admit that he didn’t know if they would be any safer outside the manor, though, and at least if they were with him then he could keep an eye on them.

So he turned back to the hallway and continued creeping along it silently, the children staying quiet behind him but the squeaks of their shoes giving them away. When Adam reached the half-open door, he stopped, turned back to the children, and motioned at them to stay. Thomas nodded and Adam turned back to the door.

He stepped forward and slowly pushed the door slightly further open, peering into the portion of the room visible past the edge of the door. There was a fireplace set into the nearest wall, ashes cold, and more handsome dark wood panelling.

Adam was beginning to think that he’d completely missed Metatron after all when he pushed the door the rest of the way open and saw the body on the marble floor.

“Shhhiiiiit,” Adam hissed, hastily glancing around the rest of the room and casting his senses out for any trace of Metatron’s proximity. He didn’t feel Metatron, but he did feel another aura, very weak but definitely angelic, emanating from the motionless form resting on its side on the floor in a pool of blood.

Thomas and the others had crept closer, and Adam hastily motioned for them to stop. “Stay here,” he said in his most serious voice, and went into the room.

He approached the angel slowly, trying to determine their identity and which side they were on. Then he saw the second set of wings, crumpled beneath the first, and had a very strong suspicion.

“…Michael?” Adam asked cautiously, moving closer and kneeling just outside the pool of blood. He didn’t know what any of the archangels’ corporations looked like, but he had been to plenty of churches and Michael looked just like the paintings, decked out in Grecian-style armour and with long curling strands of blond hair falling across his bronzed cheek.

Michael didn’t respond to the sound of his name, eyes closed and one hand draped over his abdomen, where a jagged red hole had been punched through his breastplate. Adam swallowed down his nausea and forced himself closer, kneeling in the pool of blood so he was close enough to shake Michael’s shoulder. The archangel didn’t look like he was breathing, but it was difficult to tell with his armour, and since Adam could still feel his aura he must not be dead yet.

Michael roused slightly as Adam shook his shoulder, letting out a pained whine and rasping in a shallow, shaking breath. His eyes half-opened and he looked at Adam sightlessly, blue irises fogged over.

“Come…to gloat?” Michael rasped, each word sounding like it cost him immensely.

“Who did this to you?” Adam asked, eyeing Michael’s wound and wondering if it was within his ability to heal. If Michael hadn’t been able to heal it himself, it didn’t bode well.

Michael looked confused for a moment and then his eyes slid closed again. “Met…atron,” he rasped. “I—I tried—to stop him.”

“The Metatron?” Adam echoed. “Wait, _him?”_

“He is…not doing…what God wants,” Michael rasped weakly. “All this…time.”

“Ewwwww!” Annabelle’s voice said from behind Adam, and he spun his head around, glaring at where the three children had poked their heads into the room and stood frozen by the door, eyes locked on the pool of blood.

“Stay back, I said!” Adam said sharply. “Go wait in the hallway.”

“Can…does he need help?” Thomas asked, looking willing if a little ashen.

“I’ll take care of it,” Adam told him. “Wait in the hallway.”

He was relieved when Thomas did as he was asked, pushing the two younger children in front of him. Adam turned back to Michael as the archangel dragged in another rattling breath, his hand twitching weakly over his mortal wound.

“What sort of weapon did Metatron use?” Adam asked, leaning closer and moving Michael’s hand to the side, trying to get a better look at the wound.

“Does it…matter?” Michael moaned. “I cannot be saved.”

“That remains to be seen,” Adam said, searching for the straps securing Michael’s breastplate. For a wound this serious, the closer he could get his hands to the injury the better of a chance of healing it he had.

“I did my best…for Heaven,” Michael rasped, looking utterly uninterested in Adam’s attempt to save his life. “Tell them…what I did.”

 _“What kind of weapon was it?”_ Adam repeated, pulling at the straps and feeling the breastplate begin to pull away. “Why can’t you heal yourself?”

It was a moment before Michael could respond, the archangel appearing absolutely spent. “It was an…angelic blade,” he rasped at last. “Forged for…Eden’s defence. No angel…can heal it.”

“Do I look like an angel to you?” Adam asked tersely.

Michael eyed him exhaustedly. “I…suppose not.”

“I’m going to roll you over onto your back, okay?” Adam said, putting his hands on Michael’s shoulders. “I need to get this breastplate off.”

Michael’s eyes slid closed. “If you…must.”

“I think I can save you, you idiot,” Adam said, and rolled Michael onto his back.

Michael moaned and then gasped, eyes squeezing further shut as his legs jerked across the marble floor. Adam quickly set about pulling the breastplate straps on Michael’s other side free, fingers slipping on the blood-soaked leather.

“Do you think…God will…forgive me?” Michael rasped weakly, voice thick.

“You’re not going to die,” Adam said, pulling the last strap free and lifting Michael’s breastplate away from his chest.

“You…cannot help me,” Michael said despondently, staring up at the coffered ceiling with half-lidded eyes.

“Wanna bet?”

Michael’s eyes roved down to Adam. “You are…human. I am…too far gone…for human…medicine.” His voice really did seem to be growing fainter.

Adam rolled up his sleeves. “I didn’t say anything about medicine.”

Michael just looked at him, expression blank with exhaustion, as Adam placed his hands carefully on Michael’s stomach, the archangel’s blood sticking to his palms as his skin shivered.

Adam let his power flow through him, passing it through his hands and focussing it on the dark hole in Michael’s abdomen. He heard Michael gasp in surprise.

“Wh…what…?”

Adam felt some of his power sink into Michael and smiled in relief. “This wound may be impervious to healing by angels,” Adam said as he set about knitting Michael’s muscle back together, “but my power doesn’t come from angels.”


	28. A Kingly Gift

“How do you like it?” Lucifer asked proudly as Ishtyr sank hesitantly onto the edge of the throne Lucifer had arranged to have placed next to his own, currently vacant seat on the newly extended dais.

“It is…unnecessary,” Ishtyr said slowly, touching the arm with one gloved hand.

“While you are here, you shall be by my side,” Lucifer said, voice thrumming with certainty.

“I have no desire to rule Hell,” Ishtyr said, turning his level gaze back to Lucifer, who was standing on the steps leading to the raised platform. “I will stay with you, yes, but I do not need a throne to do that.”

“There’s very little ruling left to do,” Lucifer assured him, gesturing broadly at the two thrones, equal in might and splendour. “Think of them more as status symbols. I will have you respected.”

Ishtyr sighed. “If you must. But I do—” He broke off as the doors on the far side of the hall opened and Beelzebub walked in.

His stride wasn’t angry, as Lucifer had often seen it lately, but purposeful. When his eyes fell on Ishtyr sitting in the second of the matching thrones, though, he lost a step.

“Beelzebub,” Lucifer greeted him as he neared. “What do you think of the addition?”

Beelzebub ground to a halt a few metres away, eyes flicking away from Ishtyr and wings rustling behind him. “I—I came to give you a gift.”

Lucifer blinked at him in surprise. “What sort of gift?”

Beelzebub reached into the folds of his black cassock and withdrew an apple. He stepped forward and held it out to Lucifer, looking up and locking eyes with him as he did so. Behind him, Lucifer heard Ishtyr lean forward in surprise.

“It is an apple from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil,” Beelzebub said. “It is perhaps the only thing that can help a demon find Redemption.”

Lucifer stared at it in astonishment.

“I see you were busy in Eden,” Ishtyr commented mildly. Beelzebub ignored him, still holding the apple out to Lucifer.

Lucifer took it hesitantly, its perfectly red skin taut and smooth under his fingers.

“Lucifer,” Beelzebub said, taking a deep breath and fixing his eyes somewhere around Lucifer’s left ear. “Venus…I have been by your side for six thousand years. I have followed the Morningstar for as long as I can remember, and I hope to be of service to you one last time. You should go to Earth and search for Redemption there. I am sure…” Beelzebub half-glanced at Ishtyr. “I am sure you will have plenty of company. I can look after Hell in your stead.”

Lucifer stared at Beelzebub in astonishment, trying to catch his eye. “Beelzebub, I…you do not have to do this for me.”

“I want to,” Beelzebub said, his gaze dropping to Lucifer’s collar. “You have treated me most fairly, and you deserve a chance at Redemption. I…I am sure Ishtyr will enjoy Earth better. I am happy to stay here and oversee Hell, for as long as it takes.”

And then, before Lucifer’s very eyes, as though it required absolutely no effort at all, all six of Beelzebub’s outermost primaries turned white.

Lucifer stared at Beelzebub’s wings in shock, hearing Ishtyr make a sound of understanding from behind him. Beelzebub kept his gaze downcast, oblivious to Lucifer’s eyes flicking back and forth from Beelzebub’s left wings to his right and back again, and he realised with a start that Beelzebub didn’t realise what had just transpired. Lucifer wasn’t sure he fully understood either, but he did know one thing: the first feathers of Redemption only turned during a significant act. By making this offer, Beelzebub must be giving up something that was very dear to him.

“Beelz,” Lucifer said, voice fraught.

Beelzebub moved his gaze to the floor, looking very much like he was waiting to be sentenced. Lucifer looked helplessly down at the apple still in his hand and suddenly understood. The two of them had never spoken much about their own chances of Redemption, but Beelzebub must have had this apple in his possession for some time—must have realised that it could give him a very real shot at Redemption. He could have eaten it himself, at any time, and none of them would have been the wiser. Instead, he had brought it to Lucifer and given it up, along with any hope of leaving Hell. Lucifer knew that Beelzebub had been spending a lot of time lately interacting with the humans and angels following Golgoth, and on top of that had made several trips to Earth in the course of trying to contact Crowley on Lucifer’s behalf. He must want Redemption so badly.

Lucifer felt his sinuses prickle uncomfortably as he took a step forward, down the bottommost of the shallow steps of the dais holding the pair of thrones. He moved the apple to his left hand and held out his right.

Beelzebub raised his head slightly, still keeping his eyes downcast, and moved to shake Lucifer’s offered hand. But Lucifer brought his other hand over, clasping Beelzebub’s in both of his and pressing the apple back into his palm.

“I thank you,” Lucifer said, “but let this chance be yours.”

Beelzebub looked up at him in surprise, but their gazes had barely met before Beelzebub averted his eyes again.

Lucifer drew a deep breath and put his hands on the shoulders of his most loyal and steadfast lieutenant, who had never left his side and who had grown to be more to him than a friend.

“You have followed the Morningstar most magnificently,” Lucifer told him kindly, “but that star has set.” He adjusted his grip on Beelzebub’s shoulders, wishing the other seraph would look at him this one last time. “You have been a most excellent companion, and I could not have asked for anyone better to be at my right hand.” Lucifer drew another breath, feeling an uncharacteristic tightness in his throat. “I truly thank you for everything you have done for me, but you ought to go. I will stay here and oversee Hell. It is my fault it exists at all.”

Beelzebub shook his head, looking overwhelmed. Lucifer felt a pain in his chest, but knew that if Redemption was what Beelzebub truly desired—as his white-tipped wings proved—then he had to let him go.

“I—I release you from your oath,” Lucifer said. “You are bound to me no longer.”

Beelzebub turned away, wrenching his shoulders from Lucifer’s grip. His wings fanned out to hide his body, jet black but with that single impossible streak of white along the edges. “You…want me to go?” Beelzebub asked, his back to Lucifer, voice oddly tight.

Lucifer frowned after him worriedly. He did not _want_ Beelzebub to go, did not _want_ to lose his best friend, but his first feathers had turned right in front of him. Beelzebub had done so much for him over the millennia, and he wanted to be able to finally do something for him in return.

“It is better for both of us this way,” Lucifer said at last, pushing down the sorrow that rose in him at the thought of how much emptier Hell would be without the other seraph. He wondered if it was selfish of him to ask Beelzebub to visit every now and then.

He never got to find out, because Beelzebub had already started for the door. He stopped after a few paces and half-turned back around, glancing briefly at Lucifer and then casting his gaze back to the floor.

“G—Good-bye, Lucifer,” he said, voice taut. His head turned slightly towards Ishtyr. “I do hope you are happy.” And then he turned, crossed the remaining distance to the double doors, and was gone.

Lucifer stared down the length of the hall after him, turning Beelzebub’s parting words over in his mind in confusion. They hadn’t been sarcastic or bitter, and he couldn’t fathom why Beelzebub would honestly think he would be happier without him.

After a long moment, Lucifer turned, walked back to his throne, and sank onto the hard surface of its seat. Even with Ishtyr on the adjacent throne, he couldn’t help but feel suddenly very lonely. Beelzebub had been with him for a long time. But he knew he had done the right thing, even if it felt very wrong indeed.

He turned their conversation over again in his head and then looked down at his hands. He wondered if he’d ever see Beelzebub again.

After another long moment, he sat back and saw Ishtyr staring at him.

Ishtyr raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “Well?”

Lucifer frowned at him. “Well, what?” he asked defensively, and sat back further, trying unsuccessfully to make himself more comfortable.

Ishtyr stared at him. “That’s _it?”_

Lucifer looked away. “It’s what he wants.”

He could feel Ishtyr’s eyes drilling into him. “Are you really that blind, or have you grown as cruel as they say?”

Lucifer’s head snapped around, and he glared at Ishtyr. “You don’t underst—”

“I am Death,” Ishtyr rumbled, something dark and incomprehensible flashing in his eyes. “Do not presume to tell me what I do and do not understand about _grief.”_

Lucifer blinked at him in confusion, feeling some of his anger wane. He didn’t want to lose his only other friend. “What?”

Ishtyr gave him a long, hard look and then exhaled, appearing to gather himself. He leaned across the arm of the throne, fixing Lucifer with an intent stare. “What do you think just happened here?”

“Beelzebub—he started to unFall,” Lucifer said, the words seeming unfamiliar on his tongue. “I had to let him go.”

Ishtyr drew a deep breath. “And _why_ , perchance, do you think his feathers turned?”

Lucifer fixed his gaze on something over Ishtyr’s shoulder, not really feeling up to being interrogated but unwilling to leave and be alone either. “He was offering to give up his chance at Redemption,” Lucifer said. “To clean up the mess I made, which is my responsibility alone.”

“You think he cares about _Redemption?”_ Ishtyr echoed. “You saw him—did he look happy when he left?”

Lucifer looked away. “He _will_ _be_ happy,” he said stiffly. “He has lived too long in my shadow; he will be happier casting his own.”

“Beelzebub did not bring that apple all the way from Eden for the fulfilment of some _oath_ ,” Ishtyr said sharply. “Surely you cannot be so blind…?”

“Then, please, enlighten me,” Lucifer snapped, patience growing thin.

Ishtyr stood. “I do not have the time to hold your hand all the way to the conclusion. One question: are you happy he is gone?”

Lucifer glared at Ishtyr, insulted at the very suggestion. “No, of course not. He is the best—the best…” He hesitated.

“Friend?” Ishtyr supplied. “General? Servant? Counsel?”

Lucifer frowned. “He may have sworn that oath of fealty, but we are a team. Or, we _were_ …” He struggled to explain. “He was the only one I could trust. The only one powerful enough to overthrow me and yet loyal enough not to. But this—he _deserves_ to be Redeemed. He has only ever done right by me.”

“And do you want to do right by him?” Ishtyr asked.

Lucifer nodded miserably, sinking back into his throne.

“Good Lord, do I have to do everything myself?” Ishtyr muttered, and strode over and grabbed Lucifer by the arm.

Lucifer started at the contact, eyes flicking up to Ishtyr’s in shock, hyperaware that the material of Ishtyr’s glove was the only thing currently standing between him and the Void.

“Beelzebub didn’t _leave_ ; you _sent him away_ , you idiot,” Ishtyr said, dragging Lucifer out of his throne. “His feathers didn’t turn because he was giving up _Redemption_ ; they turned because he was giving up _you.”_

Lucifer stared at Ishtyr in shock. “I—that’s not—” he protested.

“Do you even have _eyes?”_ Ishtyr pressed. “He must think you’ve replaced him with me. You—you see, I _knew_ that second throne was a bad idea.”

Lucifer blinked at Ishtyr. “I don’t understand.”

Ishtyr rolled his eyes. “Beelzebub’s been your friend for—what?—six thousand years? Then you accuse him of treason, ignore him, lavish all your attention on someone else, and when he turns up with a gift you give it back to him and show him the door.”

“I—that’s not what I did,” Lucifer protested, but as he hastily flicked back through the last few days in his mind, he suddenly second-guessed himself. Surely Beelzebub hadn’t misinterpreted him that badly? Surely he knew what he meant to Lucifer, and was not so foolish as to believe that Lucifer would so easily set aside six thousand years of companionship? Then he felt a surge of guilt, remembering how he had forced the Seal of Solomon onto Beelzebub’s finger and accused him of betrayal, possibly the most personally offensive crime he could have charged him with. He still hadn’t found the time to apologise to Beelzebub about it, but surely Beelzebub didn’t think he was still upset about that whole misunderstanding?

“Go after him,” Ishtyr said, giving Lucifer’s back a solid push. “Tell him how you feel.”

Lucifer took an uncertain step forward and stumbled to a halt, looking back at Ishtyr, torn. “But—but what if—”

“Just go,” Ishtyr said, making shooing motions. “Even for angels and demons, life is short. There is so much remorse among the dead. I will not let you spend the next millennium regretting this moment.”

Lucifer took a few more hesitant steps towards the still-open door and stopped again. He turned back to Ishtyr. “Are you sure?”

Ishtyr looked at him levelly. “Are you?”

Lucifer thought for a moment, still conflicted. Then he nodded, took a deep breath, and strode out of the hall.

 

~~***~~

 

Aziraphale kept his thoughts on Crowley as Metatron dragged him across uncomfortably familiar hills towards a small building he’d hoped he’d never have to see again.

Metatron had arrived to fetch him at Heaven’s gate not long before, looking frazzled but all too pleased to see Aziraphale. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had been immediately reminded of exactly how much pain Metatron had put Crowley through, and had only barely resisted the urge to abandon the rest of the plan and take care of Metatron himself, here and now. As it was, it was only the knowledge that Crowley was no longer in that pain—he’d felt Crowley’s condition substantially improve a few minutes earlier, indicating that he had been successfully rescued—that had held him back. Fortunately for the sake of the plan, Aziraphale was still a little stuffy-nosed from worrying about Crowley, and his red nose and tear-stained cheeks distracted from the angry glint in his eyes and served to convince Metatron that Aziraphale was helpless and afraid for his life.

Aziraphale had done his best to sustain this illusion as Metatron dismissed Asterion and shackled Aziraphale. The manacles appeared to be enchanted to prohibit the use of magic, as all of Heaven’s restraints were, but the warding wasn’t strong enough to restrain a seraph, and Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s power still flowing through him, warm and bright.

They had then started off cross-country towards the disused armoury in the third circle, one of Metatron’s hands wrapped around the end of the chain leading to Aziraphale’s shackled wrists. Aziraphale did his best to play the part of the frightened, Fallen human, trailing after Metatron with bowed head and occasionally stumbling or whimpering when Metatron yanked hard on the chain and pulled Aziraphale’s wrists forward. With his remaining time, he tried to soothe Crowley, feeling his husband’s anxiety and worry mixed in with his relief. He could tell that Crowley was still hurt, his pain stinging at Aziraphale’s side, and he hoped nervously that Crowley would be strong enough to play his part in the plan.

Metatron pulled Aziraphale’s chain a bit harder, causing Aziraphale to stumble. As he righted himself, he looked up and saw the small white stone building before them.

Aziraphale glanced discreetly around himself as Metatron dragged him towards the disused armoury, feeling Crowley’s aura very close by and wondering where Ludwig had hidden him. Everything appeared calm, however, the grass barely rustling as the faintest of breezes gusted past them.

“My favourite part,” Metatron said with apparent delight as they reached the door to the armoury. With his free hand, Metatron started unsealing the seven locks on the armoury door.

Aziraphale felt Crowley reach out for him, and he flicked his eyes around as much as he could without turning his head, certain Crowley was very close. Luckily, the message Crowley seemed to be sending him now was one of reassurance and resolution. They must be going ahead with the plan.

“Crowley,” Metatron said, pulling open the door to the armoury and taking a step inside, yanking Aziraphale after him, “look who I’ve—”

He broke off abruptly, and Aziraphale saw that the mirage that, from the outside, rendered the armoury tranquil and unbreached, did not extend to the inside. One entire wall of the building was absent, letting in the light and breeze, and Metatron’s gaze fixed itself on the heap of blood-splattered rubble strewn across the floor.

Aziraphale wasted no time grabbing onto some of Crowley’s power and breaking his shackles. He cast the remnants to the ground, turned, and bolted.

Metatron spun, the air crackling with his anger as he lunged after Aziraphale, but he was already several paces away. “Come back here, you—”

“Looking for me?”

Now feeling a safe distance away, Aziraphale turned in time to see Metatron round on Crowley, who had appeared just outside of the armoury.

In the second it took Metatron to react, still processing what was happening, Crowley looked over at Aziraphale. Even from several paces away, their eyes met, and Aziraphale felt a world of understanding pass between them, the mere sight of Crowley standing there on his own two legs more reassuring than he could express.

Then the charged feeling in the air tripled, and Crowley threw his attention back to Metatron just in time to deflect a bolt of lightning aimed at his chest, sending it searing into the ground with such force that all of the grass in the immediate vicinity vaporised.

Aziraphale spun, eyes scanning the various clumps of trees, until he spotted a flash of Ludwig’s blue riding jacket by a nearby copse of evergreens.

He cast another worried glance over his shoulder and then broke into a sprint, directing his feet towards Ludwig. _Be careful, my love_ , he thought, and then turned all of his attention to his own part in the plan.

 

~~***~~

 

“The third circle, yes, you’ll know it when you see it,” Gedariah assured Jerahmiel, motioning impatiently for the archangel to hurry. Jerahmiel still seemed rather mystified, but he did as he was directed, taking a few steps in the right direction and spreading his two pairs of wings for flight.

“It’s just Michael left,” Kazariel said as Jerahmiel pushed off, checking the time on her mobile. “The Metatron and Aziraphale must have reached the armoury by now. Do you think Michael’s already there?”

Gedariah bit his lip, eyes nervously scanning the nearest road. “I’m not sure.”

“He would have gone there after the distraction, if he could. He knows the plan.”

Gedariah weighed his options. He had had a bad feeling ever since he’d left Metatron’s manor, and he couldn’t help but think that something had gone wrong with the distraction. “I want to go back and double-check something,” he said.

“Okay,” Kazariel replied, unfurling her wings. “If you don’t find him, come back quickly. It’s going to be quite the spectacle.”

“I will,” Gedariah agreed, spreading his own wings. “See you soon.”


	29. The Duel

Crowley cast Aziraphale one last, brief glance, and then forced himself to concentrate on Metatron, knocking away the second bolt of lightning aimed at him with a gesture of his hand. This one was stronger than the first had been, and Crowley felt its heat graze the back of his hand as he directed it to the ground, bending the energy away from himself.

Metatron strode forward as he called another bolt from the ether, beginning to close the distance between them. Crowley hastily scrambled backwards, unwilling to let Metatron get too close, and when the next bolt reached him he didn’t have the space to deflect it, only throwing up a magical shield and praying for the best.

Crowley’s vision exploded in white light, and for a moment his heart stopped, certain he had been struck, but then he realised that his shield was holding, the lightning exploding across its convex surface like a drop of water hitting a stone.

 _“Shit,”_ Crowley said, feeling the raw energy battering against his shield and exploding around him, the world fracturing as snapping, jagged white lines filled the periphery of his vision.

But, as impossible as it seemed, his shield was _holding_.

Ever since Crowley had accidentally obliterated a long swath of Hell on his way back to Earth with Aziraphale, he had done his best to keep his newfound powers in check, drawing on only as much as he needed and leaving the rest untouched. It was a bit like scooping a cupful of water from the surface of a lake—a lake so deep that he was honestly afraid of what might lurk in its depths.

It seemed that this policy of cautious moderation was likely to change in the near future.

A fresh blast of lightning hit Crowley’s shield, even stronger than the last, and Crowley wondered worriedly if Metatron was trying to directly overwhelm him. The problem was, in a toe-to-toe fight, Crowley knew he didn’t stand much of a chance.

Though they should have been evenly matched since they were both seraphim, Crowley was still wounded and had used a lot of his power healing his wings. As long as Metatron hadn’t used a great deal of his own power in the last twenty-four hours, he had Crowley at a distinct disadvantage. And, if the speed with which Metatron kept advancing on him was anything to go by, he seemed to know that.

Crowley poured more power into his shield to bolster it and squinted through the ever-shifting maze of white streaks in front of him to try to see where exactly Metatron was standing.

He couldn’t get a good fix, but as he slowly retreated he could feel himself beginning to walk backwards up a hill, and guessed Metatron could be only a few paces from the edge of the armoury. Keeping part of his attention on his shield, Crowley reached out with his mind until he found the stones of the armoury, their protective warding broken now that one wall had been obliterated. Crowley wrapped his power around the nearest of the heavy stone walls and yanked it towards where he guessed Metatron must be standing.

There was the sound of breaking mortar and then a crash that sounded more like an avalanche, and Crowley abruptly felt the pressure on his shield let up. He took an automatic step backwards, keeping the shield in place as the delicate strands of lightning filling the air began to wink out of existence.

Crowley’s vision was slow to return, a white-grey haze hanging over his retinas as he blinked rapidly. When his vision had cleared sufficiently, he saw a large mound of rubble not far in front of him, white bricks cracked and smashed, a cloud of dust hanging in the air.

From somewhere in front of him and off to the side, he heard the sounds of cheering.

Crowley stared at the mound of rubble, feathers prickling uncomfortably as he felt something in the air shift. He risked a glance away from the pile of rubble and saw several faces peering out from a copse of trees on an adjacent hill. He spotted Aziraphale as well, half-crouched on the ground off to his side. It looked like he had been trying to run around the fight and back towards Ludwig and the others, but had been forced to stop to avoid the excess lightning being knocked off of Crowley’s shield.

“Stay back!” Crowley shouted towards the trees, and turned his attention back to the mound of rubble just as it exploded. He strengthened his shield and threw one up in front of Aziraphale as well, since he was still within range.

Crowley felt several large blocks of stone bounce off his shield, a fresh cloud of dust exploding from the centre of the pile of rubble and quickly beginning to clear.

“So,” Metatron’s voice said, loud and cold, and Crowley saw him straighten up amid the rubble, white wings smeared with dust. “That’s the way it’s going to be.” Metatron reached to his side and drew a sword.

Crowley readied himself uncertainly, casting Aziraphale a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. His partner had straightened up and was starting to creep ahead, slowly crossing the stretch of blackened grass and beginning to inch past Metatron towards the copse of trees, giving the seraphim a wide berth.

When Crowley flicked his gaze nervously back to Metatron, it was in time to see the sword in Metatron’s hand burst into soft white flames. A moment later, they shifted to a brilliant orange, roaring over a metre high and snapping sharp-edged tongues into the air like fiery horses impatiently held back by their reins.

Crowley stopped himself from taking another step back by sheer force of will, instead miracling a sword of his own into his hand. It wasn’t an Edenic sword and wouldn’t channel his power very well—and almost certainly wouldn’t light on fire—but it was better than nothing.

Metatron took a step towards him, rubble shifting underfoot, and smiled broadly. Crowley raised his own sword into a defensive position, still keeping his magical shield hovering faintly in front of him, prepared to strengthen it at the slightest provocation.

Then Metatron raised his sword, turned his head, and swung the tip of the sword so it was pointing directly at Aziraphale.

“No!” Crowley shouted, lurching forward and strengthening the shield in front of Aziraphale as a jet of fire shot from the tip of Metatron’s sword.

Crowley felt a wave of relief as he saw the fire explode in all directions as it reached Aziraphale, blasted aside by the shield. His relief was quickly swamped when Metatron launched himself into the sky a moment later, the jet of fire ceasing as his three sets of wings snapped open.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Crowley said, and sprinted for Aziraphale. Aziraphale seemed to realise what was happening at the same time, because he started running flat-out for the cover of the trees.

Crowley threw himself into the air when his feet carried him too slowly, each footfall sending bolts of pain through his injured side. After he had gained some altitude, he cranked in his left wings and executed a quick spiral, getting a brief glance of what was above him. Metatron was surging overhead, wings sweeping downwards as he swung the sword back and forth like a scythe, each swipe sending out arcs of fire.

“Holy—” Crowley shifted the shield over Aziraphale so it was facing skyward, and was so preoccupied that he almost didn’t see the string of fire hurtling in his own direction. He half-tucked in his right wings and darted to the side, feeling the fire’s heat on the tips of his primaries as he shot out of danger. Then he threw his wings back and came to a standstill, climbing higher and trying to get a better view of Metatron.

The other seraph was wreaking havoc from above him, still swinging the sword with apparent delight, casting out arcs of fire. Wherever they hit the ground, a wall of fire erupted, easily over a metre high. Metatron seemed to be aiming them towards Aziraphale, who had skidded to a stop as a wall of fire shot skyward in front of him.

“That is just…not _fair,”_ Crowley panted, extinguishing the line of fire in front of Aziraphale with a thought. He dodged another arc of fire Metatron had sent in his direction and racked his mind for an idea.

He jumped on the first one that popped into his head and reached out with his free hand, the other still holding his rather useless sword. He wrapped protective bubbles around himself and Aziraphale and closed his fist.

All of the fire in the vicinity began to dwindle lower as Metatron’s wings suddenly lost their purchase. Crowley squeezed his fist tighter, struggling to keep ahold of the spell as he pushed all the air from their immediate area, strangling the fire and sending Metatron spiralling towards the ground, wings wildly flapping on nothing.

Below him, he saw Aziraphale make a mad dash for the trees, sprinting across the smouldering lines of fire. Crowley felt his own breaths grow tight, not from the spell whose effects he had excluded himself from, but from the demand of the spell. He could feel the surrounding air pressing down on the huge space he had evacuated, the sheer weight of it too much to shoulder for long.

He waited until Metatron had dropped past him, giving Crowley the high ground, and relaxed his fist, letting out a sharp sigh of relief as he felt his mortgaged power flow back into him. Metatron flapped furiously below him, regrettably able to regain lift before plummeting into the ground. He relit his sword, the flames painfully bright, and his head turned again towards Aziraphale.

“Hey!” Crowley shouted, adjusting his grip on his own miracled sword and testing how much of his power it would take. “How about you pick on someone your own size?”

Metatron slowly twisted his head around, staring up at Crowley. Beyond him, Crowley saw Aziraphale nearing the edge of the trees, Ludwig reaching out to pull him in.

Metatron beat his wings harder, beginning to regain altitude and turning to face Crowley.

Crowley raised his sword, but then Metatron’s eyes slid straight past Crowley, fixing on something over his shoulder.

For a heartbeat Crowley thought for sure it was a feint designed to get him to look around, but then Metatron abruptly swept his wings forward, putting more space between himself and Crowley, the flames on his sword dwindling lower.

Crowley blinked and risked a glance over his shoulder, keeping his shield at the ready. Near the horizon and rapidly approaching, white wings flashing in the light, were three archangels.

“Too cowardly to face me alone?” Metatron sneered, though his voice wasn’t as strong as it could have been.

Crowley turned back to Metatron, adjusting his grip on his sword. “You’re the one calling all the lightning. It’s not exactly subtle.”

Metatron continued scanning the horizon, and that was when Crowley noticed that it was more than just the archangels incoming—there were numerous little white flashes off to his left and right, the reflection of light off of white wings.

Metatron hesitated a moment more and then swung his sword towards Crowley, unleashing an arc of fire. The flames had barely left the tip of his sword before he turned and took off in the opposite direction. A stroke of Crowley’s wings put him above the fire aimed his way, and then he shot after Metatron, sword in hand.

Crowley was beginning to gain on the other seraph, wings straining, when Metatron cast a look over his shoulder and Crowley crashed headlong into what seemed to be an invisible wall in the sky. The impact bloodied his nose and jarred him almost to a halt as jolts of pain shot through his newly healed wings. He caught himself and hastily smoothed power over the pain before vaporising the object in his path and starting forward again.

He had lost a lot of speed, though, and Metatron now had a considerable lead on him. Crowley sped forward as quickly as his wings could carry him and threw his own power out, mentally grabbing onto Metatron’s left ankle. He yanked back with all of his strength and was rewarded with a screech. Metatron’s wings flared out to slow himself as Crowley mentally dragged Metatron back towards him, pulling against the other seraph’s velocity like a rope tied to an anchor.

Metatron twisted, wings flaring out behind himself, and shot a bolt of lightning at Crowley. It was a relatively small one, and Crowley deflected it with ease, sending the beam shooting up into the sky like a beacon. Metatron scowled.

“What, afraid everyone will see what you’ve become?” Crowley called.

“I am not afraid of _them,”_ Metatron snarled, the air around him snapping.

The next bolt of lightning went high, and Crowley ducked under it easily. It was too late that he realised that that had been exactly what Metatron wanted. Metatron had moved closer while Crowley was distracted, and he took this opportunity to seize the high ground, wings blotting out the sky as he swung his sword down towards Crowley.

Crowley was barely far enough away to avoid the flaming blade, and when an arc of fire flew from its tip he was forced to rapidly lose altitude to avoid it, struggling to keep the necessary distance from Metatron as he felt his shield begin to lose its strength.

Metatron kept after him, driving him closer to the ground, each gust of air from his wings a wall forcing him down.

The miracled sword was still in Crowley’s hand, so he raised it in his defence, wings ineffectually trying to slow his descent as the ground rushed closer.

Metatron brought the Edenic sword down and Crowley caught it with his own, the miracled steel shaking as it took the impact, driving him even further downward.

The second blow rattled all the way to his chest, and on the third hit Crowley pushed back against Metatron with a wall of power. Metatron did the same, and their wills collided like two trains smashing headlong into each other. Crowley barely had time to register his miracled sword shattering under the pressure before the explosion pushed him and Metatron apart, driving Crowley downwards with all the grace and reckless speed of a renegade comet.

Crowley had only an instant to throw a shield around himself before he slammed back-first into the ground, the impact driving all the air from his lungs and nearly making him black out.

For a long moment Crowley couldn’t breathe, pain arcing through him as his shield flickered away to nothing, his eyes wide with shock. When his static-charged vision cleared, he saw a haze of dust lying around him, the delicate blue dome of the sky seeming very far away. The pain was beginning to properly set in, tearing at his side, back, and wings.

Crowley’s brain kicked back into gear, and he hastily poured his power into himself, healing as many of his injuries as he could. Then he started to free himself from the ground, groaning as his wings protested the movement. It was only then that he registered that his impact had driven him into a crater, its lip almost half a metre above his line of sight.

Fresh pain raced through Crowley’s side as he started to sit up very slightly, breaths sharp and tight and vision reeling.

“You have grown awfully bold, demon,” Metatron’s voice said from somewhere above him, “considering how you _cried_ when I drove that stake into your wing.”

Crowley froze, panting for breath. He looked up slowly and saw Metatron’s face blocking out the sky, three sets of wings fanning out over him.

“How you _screamed_ ,” Metatron continued, stepping down into the crater, “when I broke your wing… _here—”_

Crowley felt Metatron’s foot on the bend of one of his wings, the one Metatron had broken earlier, the seraph beginning to put pressure on the joint.

Panic spiked through Crowley, followed quickly by pain and fear, and he pushed back with his power.

Metatron crushed Crowley’s attempt to repulse him, instead leaning forward more heavily, his foot pressing harder against Crowley’s wing. Crowley tried desperately to push him away with his power again, but again Metatron ignored him, his will lying thick over Crowley like a blanket, threatening to smother him.

 _No, no, no—oh God, please, no,_ Crowley thought in panic, feeling himself hyperventilating at the thought of his wing being broken yet again. He lunged for his power a third time, knowing that it was the only thing that could save him. He kept a great deal of it lying dormant, tucked away in hidden reserves deep within himself, the untapped depths of the metaphorical lake. The last time his power had fully filled him, he had almost lost himself, so overwhelmed by its raw potential. But he needed it, needed _all_ of it, in that instant.

Crowley broke down the floodgates and let himself fill with all the powers he feared, the full powers of a seraph. He called them to his aid and pushed back against Metatron with absolutely everything he had.

There was an incredible burst of white light and the next thing Crowley knew the weight on his wing was gone, leaving Crowley alone in the crater, sucking in deep breaths and trembling all over. He could feel his power coursing through him, raw and strong and so, so bright, stronger than he felt he was.

But it stayed complacent as Crowley climbed shakily to his feet, the air around him audibly sizzling. He took a few deep, calming breaths, struggling to get a grasp on the power rushing through him. It reacted to his every prod, but, though he felt very much like he was playing with fire, it didn’t bite him.

 _You’ve got this,_ Crowley thought unsteadily to himself, and fixed his gaze ahead. Metatron was picking himself up off the ground a dozen metres away, where he’d been buried in a nice little crater of his own, burrowed into the field.

That was when Crowley saw the low stone wall off to his left and realised with a tremor of fear exactly where they were. This was the edge of Heaven, the same edge that Aziraphale had brought Crowley to when he’d rescued him from that awful white room the first time around. That stone wall was where Aziraphale had Fallen, what seemed like so very long ago.

 _Aziraphale_. Crowley turned his attention from Metatron and looked over his shoulder, back the way they’d come. The sky near the horizon was flashing with wings, and there was movement on the ground too, but where was Aziraphale?

Crowley felt for him and found Aziraphale almost immediately, his angel’s presence beyond comforting. Crowley latched on and tried to pinpoint an exact location, but all he was able to determine at a moment’s notice was that Aziraphale was close, and drawing closer.

Strengthening his connection with Aziraphale had a second, unforeseen effect as well: it provided Crowley with an anchor. His power was alien and frightening, threatening to sweep him out to sea, but as long as he could reach Aziraphale, he had a port of safe harbour. Aziraphale had pulled him back before, the last time his powers had overwhelmed him, and he could do so again if necessary.

Crowley felt himself calm all at once, his newfound sense of security extinguishing his panic and letting him draw a properly deep breath. As long as he had Aziraphale, he knew, everything was going to be okay.

He reached experimentally for his power and it responded; he withdrew, it settled. And, all of a sudden, Crowley felt like he had a true grasp on the situation. The powers of a seraph might still be unfamiliar to him, but they were _his_ powers, and they were under _his_ command.

Crowley saw the hilt of his shattered sword lying nearby and bent to pick it up, ignoring the protests of his injured side. He reformed the blade with a thought, and, though the steel didn’t burst into flames at his touch, it did thrum reassuringly, the hilt unfamiliar but solid in his hand.

He turned his attention back to Metatron as the other seraph started towards him, flames licking along the blade of the Edenic sword.

Crowley raised his own sword and advanced, six wings fanning out behind him and power rolling off of him in waves.

Their swords met.

 

~~***~~

 

“I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word ‘distraction,’” Ludwig huffed as he ran after Aziraphale, the two of them outstripping the others.

Aziraphale ignored him, running flat-out towards the flashes of bright light ahead of them, their source hidden by the rise of a hill. He sucked in breaths as he started up the incline, lungs bursting and legs protesting the exercise. He could feel the vast amounts of power being expended by Crowley, and hoped nervously that his partner was all right.

Aziraphale crested the hill and felt his heart leap into his throat as he saw the source of the bursts of light. Crowley and Metatron were surging back and forth across the middle of a field, swords flashing. Metatron’s was blazing, orange flames engulfing the blade and casting off droplets of fire like liquid sparks flying from an anvil. Crowley’s sword would have appeared ordinary if it wasn’t for the fact that it was currently glowing a brilliant white, shedding waves of light and vaporising everything in its path.

And Crowley… Aziraphale’s eyes locked on his partner. He was glowing as brightly as his sword, light thrumming off of him in waves, each of his six wings sparkling as he channelled more power than Aziraphale, even with his direct connection to Crowley, could fathom.

Then Aziraphale’s eyes drifted to the left, where a short grey stone wall ran along one edge of the field, marking the boundary of Heaven.

There was an incredible flash of light as Crowley and Metatron’s swords met head-on, and Aziraphale quickly threw his attention back to them, stamping down his unease and reminding himself forcefully of what he was here to do. He resumed sprinting down the slope towards the pair, Ludwig following suit beside him.

The ground beneath Aziraphale’s feet had just flattened out when he was distracted by three shapes dropping quickly to the ground off to his right. He glanced at the figures—archangels, by the looks of them, sent by Kazariel and Gedariah to witness the culmination of their plan—as they started forward.

“Stay back!” Aziraphale shouted urgently, waving his hand at them. He returned his gaze to where Crowley and Metatron were duelling furiously, the ground beneath them already blackened, sections of grass smouldering. Crowley had never been particularly good at fencing, but he seemed to be holding his own, blocking Metatron’s fierce jabs and swipes with hasty parries. Aziraphale eyed Metatron as he allowed his feet to slow, and noted that, luckily, Metatron didn’t appear to understand the finer points of fencing either.

“What’s this?” one of the archangels—Aziraphale recognised Gabriel’s voice—shouted from where the three of them were continuing forward, Aziraphale’s instructions unheeded.

“Ludwig!” Aziraphale called, glancing back just long enough to motion Ludwig towards the archangels. “Fill them in!” Beyond Ludwig, he saw a half-dozen wingless figures crest the ridge he and Ludwig had just crossed, though they were too far away for him to identify anyone but Alexander.

Aziraphale threw his attention back to Crowley and Metatron and resumed sprinting towards them, his fingers tight around the pair of handcuffs Harry had clumsily pushed into his hands when they’d met up in the evergreen copse.

Metatron advanced on Crowley, forcing him to retreat as he hammered his sword against Crowley’s, each stroke producing a cascade of sparks. Then, just as quickly, Metatron reversed direction, giving himself some space and making a sweeping gesture with the tip of his sword. A circle of fire erupted around Crowley and shot skyward, engulfing him.

Aziraphale skidded to a halt, fear lancing through him, but a heartbeat later the fire vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving Crowley windswept but untouched.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Crowley shouted. _“More_ fire?”

Metatron snarled and threw his hand out instead, the air audibly snapping. When the bolt of lightning reached Crowley, he made a dismissive motion with his hand and it slammed into the ground, scorching the grass and making the entire field tremble underfoot.

“Really? Fire and lightning? Have you no _originality?”_

Metatron took an angry step forward and began to make a complicated, arcane gesture with his free hand. Aziraphale lurched back into motion, hurrying forward as quickly as he dared and beginning to circle around Metatron.

When he was about halfway between Crowley and Metatron, off to one side and trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible, he saw Metatron’s head turn towards him.

 _Oh, bugger,_ Aziraphale thought. A heartbeat later, Crowley swept his hands upwards and the ground around Metatron surged skyward like an erupting volcano and threw itself over the unfriendly seraph, burying him in a mound of earth and grass.

Aziraphale jumped back in surprise and then hastily sprinted forward, putting himself behind Metatron. The ground rumbled beneath his feet, trembling with power, and Aziraphale threw himself to the grass just as the mound of earth exploded.

Clumps of soil rained down around Aziraphale as he threw his arms over his head, one hand still clutching the handcuffs.

He stayed down for a long moment, waiting for his head to clear. He was just about to look up when there was a loud, abrupt _bang_ from nearby.

Aziraphale cautiously propped his head up, feeling clumps of earth roll off of him and catch in his curls, and saw that Crowley had miracled a pistol into his hand and was emptying the clip in Metatron’s direction. Unfortunately, Crowley seemed to know his way around a gun about as well as he did the sword still in his other hand, and most of the bullets went wide. The few that got anywhere close to Metatron ricocheted away violently, some veering towards the cluster of angels that was beginning to form not far away. Evidently realising that he couldn’t control the trajectory of the deflected bullets very well, Crowley quickly miracled the gun away and adjusted his grip on his sword instead.

Aziraphale twisted his head to look over his shoulder and saw that there was indeed quite the crowd of bystanders now. He spotted at least four archangels among them, more winged figures joining them with every passing second. Everything was ready.

He turned his head back towards where Metatron was standing about a dozen metres away, his back to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale made his way to his feet as quietly as he could, more rocks and clumps of soil rolling off of him as he did so.

“Are you regretting your actions now?” Crowley called, gesturing to the ever-growing crowd of onlookers with his sword. “I suppose you would have rather they stayed in the dark?”

“I am not ashamed of doing God’s will, _Serpent,”_ Metatron growled.

“No?” Crowley asked, pacing slightly closer, the sword humming in his hand. “How about you tell all our friends what you’ve been up to, then?”

Aziraphale crept slowly closer to Metatron, the handcuffs dangling from one hand, staying low and trying to keep his footsteps silent.

“Go ahead,” Crowley continued when Metatron didn’t respond, his voice carrying in the stillness. Crowley turned to face the assembled angels next, gesturing broadly with his sword. “Tell them all about how you stole into Eden and cut down the Tree of Life.”

A surprised murmur passed through the crowd. Behind Metatron, Aziraphale slowly inched closer.

“Tell them how you struck a deal with Beelzebub,” Crowley continued, voice strong and unafraid, eyes on the crowd. “Or would you like me to do it for you?”

Metatron lunged for Crowley. Aziraphale sprang after him, but he was still too far away. He bit back an automatic cry of warning, and heard one erupt from the crowd instead. Crowley spun, turning back to Metatron and raising his sword just as Metatron brought his own down, fire streaking through the air after it. Crowley caught Metatron’s blade sideways on his own, an incredible burst of white light exploding from the point of contact. In the same instant, the ground surged under Aziraphale’s feet, bucking as though in an earthquake. A cry went up from the crowd, and Aziraphale fell forward as the ground broke beneath him.

There was a second flash of light, this one even brighter, and then Crowley and Metatron were duelling again, curtains of fire and flashes of light erupting from between them, strands of lightning streaking outwards and sizzling away to nothing in the air.

Aziraphale found himself on his hands and knees, the ground beneath him slanted upwards. He scrambled up the slope, and when he reached the top he saw that the field had turned into a series of undulating trenches and mounds, the ripples of earth emanating like shockwaves out from the circle of blackened ground around Metatron and Crowley. Aziraphale still had the handcuffs clutched in his hand, though, so he hurriedly scrambled over the short ridge and slid into the next ditch, moving closer to Metatron.

As he cleared the next ridge, he glanced briefly at the crowd off to his side. The angels there had similarly been upended by the shifting ground, and were still picking themselves up. Two archangels had already taken to the air, though, and were starting towards the duelling pair.

 _Not yet,_ Aziraphale thought in alarm. He tried to motion at them to stay back, but neither of them saw him, their course unwavering. Aziraphale swore silently and resumed scrambling over the uneven ridges towards Metatron, each trench growing progressively deeper, his shoes slipping over rocks and clumps of roots.

He was only five metres away when there was one final burst of light and Metatron’s sword abruptly left his hand, spinning through the air and falling out of sight in one of the ditches, the flames extinguishing themselves on the way.

“Ha!” Crowley cried, and Aziraphale saw him point his sword directly at Metatron’s chest.

“Cease!” one of the archangels—Azrael, he thought—shouted off to Aziraphale’s left. The pair of archangels were still some distance away but were approaching rapidly, flying low over the uneven ground. Aziraphale crested another ridge and slid into the next valley as quietly as he could, only one ditch separating him and Metatron now.

He started up the opposite side, and his head had just cleared the ridge when Metatron glanced at the two archangels. Without warning, they abruptly lost altitude and slammed into the ground, as though they’d been pushed downwards by some invisible force.

“Hey!” Crowley shouted, taking a bold step forward. Metatron threw his hand out towards Crowley next, and all of the breath abruptly emptied itself from Aziraphale’s lungs as Crowley screamed.

It was a terrible sound, made somehow even worse by the accompanying feeling of something sharp and alien blazing through every nerve in Aziraphale’s body. It felt like something was tearing at the very fibres of his—Crowley’s?—being, trying to pull him apart from the inside. Aziraphale sank down against the ridge as the pain ripped through him, knowing that he was experiencing only a fraction of what Crowley must be enduring.

After only a handful of hammering heartbeats, though, Crowley’s scream turned into a wordless shout and he felt Crowley push back against Metatron, reforming his shields and forcing Metatron’s spell to break. Aziraphale gasped in relief as he felt the worst of the pain begin to fade, Crowley routing some of his own power through himself to heal any fresh injuries.

Aziraphale drew a deep, unsteady breath and stuck his head up over the edge of the ridge again, staring worriedly at his partner.

Metatron was standing only a few metres away, his back to Aziraphale. Beyond him, Aziraphale could see Crowley, looking very shaken but still in one piece, clutching the sword in his hand so tightly that his knuckles were white. Off to the left, the pair of archangels were beginning to pick themselves off the ground. An impatient wave of Metatron’s hand slammed them back down again, the assembled crowd shifting uneasily and hurling a few derogatory shouts at Metatron.

Aziraphale hastily crawled over the next ridge and let himself roll clumsily into the last valley, his heart still beating a mile a minute as the last of the pain faded. He started up the opposite side as soon as he could, peering up over the edge of the ridge around a clump of smoking, blackened grass.

Metatron was striding towards Crowley now, inconveniently moving away from Aziraphale as he conjured a fireball into his hand and hurled it at Crowley. The ball of fire vaporised before it reached Crowley, but much more slowly than Metatron’s previous attacks had, and Aziraphale saw with alarm that Crowley wasn’t glowing as brightly as he had been before—in fact, he was barely glowing at all. He could feel Crowley’s exhaustion, drawing at Aziraphale like a weight, and he knew that Crowley’s was weakening.

Aziraphale bit his lip as he shifted to his feet and very quietly crept out of the valley, crouching low and praying that no one in the crowd would shout and give him away. He came to a stop not far behind Metatron, handcuffs at the ready, looking for an opening. Metatron took another step towards Crowley, throwing fireballs at him with both hands now. Aziraphale stalked after him silently, not looking forward to trying to intercept Metatron’s flaming hands.

Aziraphale’s eyes tracked Metatron’s movements for an opening, but he saw none, Metatron’s hands moving too quickly. He looked to Crowley for help, but Crowley seemed barely capable of keeping his shield up, the last of the seraphic light around him vanishing as he sucked in deep, shaking breaths. They both needed a break, a pause, some sort of distraction, anything—

It was then that there was a flash of white from the _right_ side of Aziraphale’s vision, towards the edge of Heaven, followed a heartbeat later by a collective gasp from the crowd on his left.

“Need any help?”

Aziraphale glanced to the side and did a double take. Golgoth was standing on the low stone wall marking the edge of Heaven, wings half-spread—perfectly _white_ wings.

Aziraphale threw his attention back to Metatron and lunged forward, the sounds of fireballs vaporising against Crowley’s shield ceasing. Aziraphale half-shouldered Metatron aside and slapped the first half of the handcuffs onto Metatron’s closer wrist. It snapped shut with a rewarding click and he grabbed wildly for Metatron’s other wrist.

Metatron’s reaction was delayed, his gaze slow to find Aziraphale as he built power around himself for an automatic counterattack. He never got to make it, though, because Aziraphale snapped the second half of the handcuffs over his other wrist and the charged feeling in the air abruptly vanished.

“What—?” Metatron said, yanking his hands back, but it was too late, Aziraphale already taking a hasty step away from him. Then there was a second gasp from the crowd.

Aziraphale took another step backwards in surprise, eyes locked on Metatron’s wings. The seraph’s feathers, which only a second ago had been as brilliant of a white as Golgoth’s, were now ink black.

 

~~***~~

 

Crowley stared at Metatron in shock as Aziraphale snapped the handcuffs onto the seraph’s wrists and the colour of his wings abruptly shifted to black, as swiftly as though a light had been turned off.

“Wh—what is this?” Azrael’s voice asked, and Crowley cast her and Jophiel a glance as they touched down nearby.

Metatron seemed almost startled for a moment, staring down at the handcuffs binding his wrists together, and then he half-glanced over his shoulder, at his wings. His expression darkened.

“You—you are a demon,” Jophiel said, though his voice was uncharacteristically uncertain.

“No,” Metatron snapped, pulling fruitlessly at the handcuffs. “ _I_ am an angel still. _He_ —” Here he jerked his head at Crowley, “is the imposter. And—and— _that abomination_.” He glared at Golgoth, who stepped down from the low stone wall and cautiously moved closer.

“Redemption has come to me,” Golgoth said. “As you can see.”

“Liar,” Metatron snarled.

“Was that a—a spell?” Aziraphale asked Metatron, sounding a little baffled. “Cloaking your wings?”

“It must have been,” Azrael said, but Jophiel cut her off, taking a step closer and drawing his sword.

“They have been hiding their feathers from us!” Jophiel declared, eyes on Metatron. “How long have you lurked as a demon in our midst?”

“I am _still an angel_ ,” Metatron hissed again, but he didn’t seem to be convincing anyone. The crowd was venturing nearer now that the threat appeared to be contained, crossing the broken ground of the field with Gabriel and Raphael at the forefront.

“If you have not Fallen yet, then you have as good as,” Jophiel growled.

“ _I_ am doing our Father’s will!” Metatron snapped. “He cast the Fallen from our midst; they _deserve_ to rot in the Abyss for eternity! But all of you—you would go against our Father’s will and let them infiltrate Heaven? Jophiel—you—surely you know that this is madness!”

Heads swivelled towards Jophiel, who shifted his weight slightly, adjusting his grip on his sword. He raised his chin. “What if this is what He meant all along, and we just didn’t understand?”

“That is _not_ the case,” Metatron spat. “ _I_ am the Voice of God _._ _I_ speak for Him, and I—”

“No, you don’t!” a voice shouted, and, to Crowley’s immense surprise, Adam Young forced his way to the front of the crowd of onlookers. Then he stepped to the side, revealing none other than Michael himself. The leader of the archangels was limping slightly, one arm clutching Gedariah for support, but he seemed to have no trouble pointing a blood-stained hand at Metatron. “You speak for no one but yourself, _Metatron_.”

Another shocked ripple passed through the crowd, and Crowley was still looking at Michael and Adam in astonishment when there was a sudden flash of motion from in front of him. He turned his head back around in time to see Metatron break into a sprint and start running towards the edge of Heaven, jumping across the first valley and half-falling into the next. Crowley and Jophiel lurched towards him immediately, but Aziraphale was closer, leaping into the trench after him and grabbing Metatron’s arm before he could get away.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Aziraphale said sharply, dragging Metatron back.

Then Metatron straightened and spun, and in the time it took Crowley to blink Metatron had cast off Aziraphale’s hand and thrown his arm around his neck. Metatron pulled Aziraphale swiftly into a headlock, and Crowley saw with a tremor of fear that the Edenic sword he had knocked from Metatron’s grasp was back in his hand.

“Get back!” Metatron shouted, retreating up the next ridge and dragging Aziraphale after him. “Stay where you are or I’ll kill him!”

Crowley, already two steps ahead of everyone else, stumbled to a halt, fear spearing through him and holding him fast. Metatron had his arm around Aziraphale’s neck, and though his hands were still bound by the handcuffs, he had the Edenic sword pointed back in Aziraphale’s direction, the edge of the blade nearest the hilt pressed up against the underside of Aziraphale’s chin.

Aziraphale tried to shift away, but Metatron tightened his grip, stilling his motion. Crowley’s panicked eyes met Aziraphale’s, and he read surprise and a flash of fear there.

“Think about what you are doing, Metatron,” Azrael said sharply from only a pace behind Crowley. “He is human.”

“He Fell like the demons,” Metatron hissed, pressing the edge of the blade up into the underside of Aziraphale’s jaw. He really didn’t have a very good angle, but he only needed to shift his arm down to expose Aziraphale’s throat, and if he was quick about it then Aziraphale didn’t stand a chance. “Our Father cast him out.”

“Let him go,” Crowley said, surprised at how little his voice trembled. He started to raise his hands, realised he was still holding the miracled sword, and tossed it to the ground. He held up his now-empty hands in a gesture of goodwill. “Please.” He took a careful step forward, and Metatron took two back, dragging Aziraphale with him over the uneven ground towards the edge of Heaven.

“Don’t move, I said,” Metatron snapped, and Crowley saw bright red beads of blood well up under Aziraphale’s chin. Crowley froze.

“This will not achieve anything,” Azrael said from somewhere behind Crowley, her voice persuasive.

“It will achieve _everything_ ,” Metatron hissed, and continued retreating, dragging Aziraphale with him.

Crowley gazed helplessly after Aziraphale and was surprised to see his partner staring straight back at him, expression cool. By his side, he made a small motion with his hand for Crowley to stay.

 _He’s got a plan,_ Crowley realised. A wave of relief hit him, immediately tempered by a fresh round of fear as Metatron dragged Aziraphale closer to the edge of Heaven. Then he realised all at once what Metatron’s plan was, and a heartbeat later what Aziraphale’s must be.

“I did all of this for _Heaven,”_ Metatron shouted as he retreated further, just a short section of ground between him and the low stone wall now. “One day, you will all see that, and you will _thank_ me.”

“Metatron—” Jophiel began, but it was clear that Metatron wasn’t listening.

The back of Metatron’s heel hit the stone wall and he starting awkwardly climbing backwards onto its top, his arm still locked around Aziraphale’s throat as he pulled him up after him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Azrael tried.

Crowley struggled to make eye contact with Aziraphale again, but they were too far apart, so he reached through the soul bond instead, clinging to the sense of nervous calm Aziraphale seemed to be exuding.

“It is the will of God,” Metatron said, the certainty in his voice unsettling. Then he spread wide his six wings, each feather jet black.

A strange feeling passed through the air then, not unlike a star crashing into an ocean, and Crowley realised with surprise that Metatron must have just Fallen, the shockwave of such a significant event rippling through Heaven.

And then, with his arm still locked around Aziraphale and the Edenic sword pressed to his captive’s throat, Metatron took a step back and simply Fell from the edge of Heaven.

Crowley ran forward as Metatron and Aziraphale vanished from view, spreading his own wings for flight. When he felt a faint, almost polite tug at one set, he let them fade from his back with a burst of relief. He angled his two remaining sets forward as he sprinted across the uneven ground, feet slipping as he touched down on the crest of every ridge in turn.

Golgoth, the archangels, and the crowd were surging forward as well, but Crowley—even injured as he was—outstripped them all. He reached the flat stretch of ground nearest the wall and crossed it as quickly as his feet would carry him, already getting some lift under his wings. He pushed off as he neared the wall and his next step landed on its top, and then Crowley spread his arms wide and threw himself from the edge.


	30. The Eveningstar

Beelzebub drew a ragged breath as he marched through the sixth circle of Hell, glaring at everyone he passed. He was receiving a number of somewhat shocked and uncertain glances, probably because he looked rather like he wanted to cry, but Beelzebub’s deathly glares were enough to keep all of the passersby silent as they detoured around him.

When he was almost in the fifth circle, moving steadily closer to the edge of Hell, he felt his pace slow. He needed a couple of minutes to think things over properly, needed to get away from the shocked faces for a moment. He took a turn down a corridor he knew led to a records room hardly anyone ever visited and ground to a halt, sucking in breaths in the much quieter corridor. He put one hand on the wall and hung his head, wings folded tightly behind him.

Lucifer had made himself perfectly clear, so Beelzebub wasn’t sure why he was having so much trouble understanding the message.

 _Just leave,_ he thought to himself, squeezing his eyes shut as his sinuses burned. _Just go._

But though he knew that it was the right thing to do, for both of them, he couldn’t process what it would mean for his future. He had never expected to leave Hell permanently, and the thought was sobering and somewhat terrifying. He had been to Earth plenty of times, sure, but where exactly would he go? How would he go about trying to be Redeemed—if he even could be?

And, the more he thought about it, the more he thought that he didn’t even _want_ to be Redeemed. The idea of going to Earth, of walking among the mortals and trying to find some ineffable grace there that would save him—it felt _wrong_. He didn’t want to go to Earth alone, didn’t want to embark on a new journey by himself, not after he had spent so much time building something here. And even if that something had turned out to be a house of cards, it wasn’t like he would find anything better on Earth. Even the mere thought of actively searching for Redemption while Lucifer stayed behind in Hell seemed indescribably _wrong_. It ought to be neither of them or both of them. They’d been in this together for too long for anything else.

 _But he doesn’t want you here,_ Beelzebub reminded himself forcefully. _He wants to be alone with Ishtyr._

Beelzebub thought of the mountains on Earth, and of the dark caverns beneath them. Surely there was a nice cave somewhere that he could hide himself away in, a place that felt enough like home that he could pretend it was. That way he wouldn’t have to think about Redemption, and about the prospect of someday returning to Heaven while Lucifer remained trapped in Hell, still wholly believing himself incapable of Redemption. But this way at least Lucifer would be happy, happy to have Beelzebub out of his sight and out of his life.

And maybe, one day, Beelzebub would venture from that cave out into the daylight and seek his Redemption. Maybe he could one day come to accept Lucifer’s rejection, but for now all he wanted to do was mourn for the life he had led for so long. He knew that he was a seraph, and that this failure to pull himself together and push on like he always had before would be seen as a weakness, but suddenly that didn’t seem very important to him. He just wanted to go home, wanted for things to go back to the way they always had been, but he also knew that he no longer had a home, and that the past was lost to him.

Beelzebub looked down at the apple, still in the hand Lucifer had pressed it into. His returning of the apple to Beelzebub had been both a rejection and a bittersweet gift, and Beelzebub looked down at it miserably, wondering if he ought to take a bite.

It supposedly imparted the knowledge of good and evil. Beelzebub wondered dully if it would tell him that Lucifer had acted cruelly by sending him away, or that Lucifer had acted in everyone’s best interests. He wondered which one would be worse.

There was a niche in the rock wall nearby, a tongue of fire quietly burning in it, and Beelzebub stepped towards it. He looked at the apple for another long moment, the firelight dancing over its surface. Then he carefully set the apple down on the edge of the niche, a safe distance from the fire but clearly visible to anyone walking down the corridor. Some lucky demon would find it, he supposed, and they could have a chance at Redemption.

Beelzebub would leave, because that was what Lucifer wanted and it would only hurt them both if he stayed, but he did not intend on seeking Redemption anytime soon, not unless he could do so with Lucifer by his side. They had Fallen together, and he would be even more damned than he already was if they weren’t going to unFall together too.

Beelzebub took a deep breath and gathered himself, rearranging his features into an unconcerned expression and pushing down the knot of feelings in his chest, smothering them with cold logic.

When he had composed himself, he turned, strode back down the corridor, and resumed his final journey out of Hell.

Demons’ heads continued to turn as he marched past them, but Beelzebub ignored them all, grinding his teeth together and keeping his eyes fixed on the path before him.

He had just entered the third circle when he felt Lucifer’s aura abruptly strengthen behind him, indicating his proximity.

Beelzebub felt a faint flutter of hope in his chest, but he quickly crushed it, keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead of him.

“Beelzebub!” Lucifer’s voice shouted, and Beelzebub reluctantly slowed, watching the handful of demons also on the thoroughfare quickly scamper away, sensing their king’s aura approaching as readily as Beelzebub did.

“Wait!” Lucifer shouted, and Beelzebub ground to a halt. Part of him wished Lucifer could have just let him go before he hurt him any more, but the rest of him just drank in Lucifer’s aura, knowing that this would be the last time he felt it for a very long time.

Lucifer slowed as he reached Beelzebub, and when Beelzebub reluctantly dragged his gaze over to him he was surprised to see that Lucifer looked almost anxious.

“I—I—” Lucifer stammered, looking suddenly very much like he had no idea what he wanted to say at all, just staring helplessly at Beelzebub.

“You—do you _want_ to go?” Lucifer asked at last.

Beelzebub blinked at him in surprise. “Wh—what?”

Lucifer flicked his eyes away, shifting uncertainly on his feet. He looked very nervous, and it was profoundly unsettling to Beelzebub; for nearly all of the time he had known him, Lucifer had been the very picture of confidence and composure. “I—I think I may have misunderstood you earlier. You do… _want_ to leave, right? You _want_ to be Redeemed?”

Beelzebub frowned at him uncertainly, unsure where this was headed.

Lucifer shifted on his feet again. “Ishtyr said maybe I ought to find you and—”

Beelzebub’s heart dropped like a rock. “Oh, so _Izzhtyr’s_ the reazzon you’re here?” Beelzebub asked, voice venomous. He turned and started striding away, something tightening in his chest. “I zzhould have known.”

“No!” Lucifer said quickly, hurrying after him.

Beelzebub ignored him, but Lucifer grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. Beelzebub turned to glare at him, and Lucifer quickly let him go.

“Look, I—I’m sorry about Ishtyr,” Lucifer said nervously, eyes dropping to the ground. “If you’ve been feeling…um, replaced, or anything like that, I assure you that that’s not the case at all. And I—I’m sorry I, um, accused you of treason. There had just been a lot of rumours swirling around, and even though you _were_ working with the Metatron, I should have known that you wouldn’t betray me.”

Beelzebub frowned at Lucifer suspiciously.

“And I know I haven’t—haven’t been a…haven’t been very good to you lately, and I wanted to apologise.”

Beelzebub studied Lucifer’s face, unwilling to be led astray by sweet-sounding words with no substance. “Honestly?”

Lucifer looked up at him in surprise, and their eyes met. “Y—yes,” he said, and Beelzebub read the truth of it in his gaze.

“You’ve been nothing but a…a loyal and capable lieutenant,” Lucifer said. “I’m sorry I doubted you. I did not intend to make you feel unwelcome. Ishtyr is…he is dear to me, and that is not going to change, but you are…I…” Lucifer broke off, visibly searching for words. “I’ve known Ishtyr for a mere fraction of the time I have known you.”

Beelzebub searched Lucifer’s face more carefully, and found nothing but honesty.

“But if—if you _do_ want to go, of course you can, and I completely understand,” Lucifer said, voice still nervous. “But I just wanted to…check.”

Beelzebub considered. “Have I ever said I wanted to leave?” he asked after a long moment, the question rhetorical.

Lucifer seemed to take it as a genuine inquiry, though, and he shifted uncertainly on his feet. “I—well, no, but you were bound by your oath, so—”

“Wait a moment,” Beelzebub said sharply, cutting Lucifer off. “You think I stayed all this time because of my _oath?”_

Lucifer didn’t respond, staring at Beelzebub’s shoulder.

“I made that oath of my own free will,” Beelzebub said sharply, “and I have never regretted it, not for a single second.”

Lucifer’s gaze flicked up to him in surprise.

“I follow the Morningstar,” Beelzebub said firmly. “As I always have.”

“But I…” Lucifer hesitated. “I am the Morningstar no longer, Beelz. If anything…perhaps I am the Eveningstar, setting on this time we have spent in the Abyss. But things are different now. I _will_ be Venus again, and I think Ishtyr will be staying for a time.”

Lucifer drew a deep breath before continuing. “But I will do my best to treat you better and give you a greater portion of my time. You have more of a right to this place than Ishtyr does. And I—” Lucifer hesitated again, eyes returning to Beelzebub’s shoulder. “Truly, you have been more than my general, my administrator, my confidant…you have been the…the only _true_ friend I’ve ever had in this place, and you—you mean…it means a lot to me. And if you…if you wanted to stay, I would be most honoured.”

Beelzebub gazed at Lucifer, an unanticipated warmth spreading through his chest, and watched in disbelief as Lucifer’s outermost primaries lightened and turned a brilliant white.

Beelzebub stared at Lucifer’s wings in astonishment, Lucifer himself keeping his eyes fixed on Beelzebub’s shoulder, waiting for his answer. “Lucifer!”

“What?” Lucifer asked, looking a little miserable.

“Your—your wings!” Beelzebub said, shocked.

Lucifer looked dejectedly over at his wings and froze.

“You—you’re starting to unFall,” Beelzebub said, reaching out a disbelieving hand and just brushing the nearest white vane with his fingertips. He felt a burst of something in his chest, like relief mixed with pride or affection, knowing that Lucifer, who had thought himself beyond hope of Redemption, would have a shot at Heaven after all.

Lucifer stared at his own wings in astonishment, appearing utterly baffled. Beelzebub’s touch seemed to convince him they were real, though, because he turned back to Beelzebub, a faint smile on his face. “I—I guess we’ll be a matching set, then.”

Beelzebub carefully retracted his hand and shot Lucifer a confused look. “What?”

Lucifer gestured to Beelzebub’s wings.

Beelzebub glanced over at his own wings, which he’d keep tightly bundled against his back ever since he’d left the throne room. And there, at the end of each wing, sat a single, perfectly white feather. _No wonder everyone was staring at me_ , he realised in shock.

“You didn’t notice?” Lucifer asked in surprise as Beelzebub hastily checked his wings on his other side, half-unfurling them in disbelief.

“N—no,” Beelzebub stammered, feeling a fresh wave of relief, this time mixed with hope. It was an emotion he hadn’t felt in a long time. _I’m going to be Redeemed,_ he thought giddily. _Lucifer and I—we’re going home together after all._

“Does—does this change anything?” Lucifer asked worriedly, the smile beginning to fade from his face. “I really do understand if you want to go.”

Beelzebub shook his head, feeling overwhelmed.

“So…you will stay?” Lucifer asked, anxiety written all over his face.

Beelzebub met his gaze and suddenly knew that it didn’t matter how long it took them to unFall, be it ten years or ten thousand. He might have started his life in Heaven, but he was already home.

“I know I am no longer the Morningstar,” Lucifer continued worriedly, “but I swear I will try my best—”

Beelzebub felt a huge smile crease his face as he pulled Lucifer into a hug, the first one he had ever been bold enough to give his friend since the Fall. “The Morningstar, the Eveningstar, Lucifer, Venus—they are all just different names for the same star, you idiot, and I will follow it always.”

Lucifer let out a surprised, relieved breath, and cautiously hugged Beelzebub back. “R—Really?”

“Of course,” Beelzebub assured him. After a long moment, he pulled back, feeling his sinuses burning with tears he couldn’t shed, unable to believe that Lucifer had come after him after all. “But can you—I mean—does Ishtyr _really_ need a throne?”

“I can get you one too,” Lucifer volunteered immediately. “And I—to be fair, I _did_ offer you one, right at the beginning, but you turned me down, remember?”

Beelzebub opened his mouth to respond, a smile on his face, and froze as he felt something thrum through the ether. Whatever it was was massive, a shift in power the likes of which hadn’t been felt since Crowley had blazed his way out of Hell, and, before that, the Fall.

Beelzebub flicked his eyes to Lucifer’s, his hands still on the other seraph’s shoulders. “Did you feel that?”

 

~~***~~

 

“Out of my way!” Father Gilbert shouted, pushing aside angels as he fought his way to the front of the crowd. Shocked and horrified murmurs were passing through it, and no one seemed particularly willing to let him through.

“Make way!” Harahel shouted from behind Father Gilbert.

Father Gilbert squeezed around a rather portly angel and then elbowed his way between two more, lurching to a halt as he collided with a short stone wall.

“What happened?” Harahel demanded as he pushed his way to the forefront of the crowd, where everyone seemed to be staring down off the edge of Heaven.

“The—Metatron,” a nearby angel said, sounding shell-shocked. “He just…Fell.”

Father Gilbert stared at the speaker—he remembered her name was Nimoniel, remembered making her, though _she_ had been a _he_ then. “What?”

“He just—just Fell,” Nimoniel repeated. “And he took Aziraphale—the Fallen principality—with him.”

A thrill of fear passed through Father Gilbert. _“What?”_

“Is he all right?” Harahel asked sharply, and Father Gilbert could hear the fear in his voice.

“I don’t know,” Nimoniel said, leaning out over the edge of Heaven and staring down into the blank blue-grey fog.

“What about Crowley?” Father Gilbert asked worriedly, knowing that the pair would never be far apart if they could help it.

“Jumped off after them,” Nimoniel said, sounding a little like she didn’t believe it herself.

“And—and the archangels?” Father Gilbert asked frantically.

“Went right after _him_.”

“What, _all_ of them?”

“Not Michael,” Nimoniel corrected, still seeming somewhat shocked and only partially interested in talking to Father Gilbert. “It looked like Metatron had tried to kill him.”

The genuine distress in Nimoniel’s voice was nothing compared to the horror that passed through Father Gilbert then.

_“What?”_


	31. Regain All Hope, Ye Who Exit Here

Aziraphale cranked in the borrowed set of Crowley’s wings and dove after Metatron as he dropped like a rock, his six wings making little effort to arrest his motion. Aziraphale had managed to break free from Metatron’s grip only a few seconds after they’d fallen from the edge of Heaven, Metatron seeming almost uninterested in keeping ahold of him any longer.

He supposed it was because Metatron had assumed that Aziraphale, a human, would simply fall to his death, but instead Aziraphale had materialised one of Crowley’s sets of wings and kept after Metatron.

He honestly wasn’t sure if Metatron had even noticed him, though; the seraph’s eyes were squeezed shut as he Fell straight down, his six black wings streaking after him like dead weights. Aziraphale remembered the excruciating pain of his own Fall and knew that Metatron must be experiencing something similar now as his divinity was stripped from him, though he was certainly doing a good job of hiding it. He seemed determined to not show any outward signs of pain, his teeth clenched together and knuckles white around the Edenic sword in his hand as he plummeted through the air like a stone. Though he thoroughly deserved his punishment, Aziraphale did feel the faintest pang of sympathy.

He didn’t let it go to his head, instead carefully adjusting his flight path to follow Metatron more closely. The last thing he was about to do was let Metatron get away now.

Around Aziraphale, the mist grew bright and almost blue, and then suddenly they were falling towards the Earth, visible beneath them as a patchwork of sprawling green and grey lines.

But then, just as it seemed they were nearing, the distant landscape faded away.

 _We’re not transitioning to the physical plane,_ Aziraphale realised in surprise, and then caught himself. _But then, why would we?_

Aziraphale stared down at Metatron as the blue-grey mist began to grow dark, all the light and colour bleeding from it. Metatron wasn’t Falling to become a human as Aziraphale had; he was becoming a demon, and that meant he was going straight to the Abyss.

Aziraphale dove to follow Metatron even more closely, the wind whistling through his feathers.

The world grew even darker, the last of the colour leaching away, and Aziraphale began to catch glimpses of dark, fragmented rocks rushing past them.

And then, all at once, they hit.

Aziraphale threw Crowley’s wings back, trying to slow his descent, but he still hit the ground hard, legs collapsing and his weight throwing him forward. He stayed there for a moment, absorbing the impact of the landing and waiting for his head to stop spinning, and then climbed unsteadily to his feet. He wasn’t sure where he was, but it was very dark, jagged black silhouettes faintly visible against the grim red sky.

Aziraphale gestured with a hand and his immediate vicinity grew brighter, revealing uneven, cratered ground interspersed with dark, jagged outcrops. The craters stretched for as far as he could see in the half-darkness, each pit roughly circular and several metres across. Jagged ridges of rock emerged from between the craters, and broken pieces of black stone lay scattered across the landscape, as though this strange field of jagged rocks had been damaged in a severe meteor shower and the pieces left strewn about.

There was a sharp, high screeching noise from somewhere behind Aziraphale and he spun, his eyes latching onto the edge of a nearby crater. This one looked considerably more recent than the others, spirals of glittery black dust still floating above it.

Aziraphale felt something warm roll down his neck and raised a hand to it automatically, his fingertips coming away red. He remembered the small cuts along the underside of his chin that the Edenic sword had made, and he hastily wiped the blood on his trouser leg, ignoring the stinging of his skin. He turned his gaze back to the crater.

“Don’t try anything, _Metatron,”_ Aziraphale growled, starting forward. Something was moving inside of the crater, the eddies of dust shivering and twisting as the air was disturbed.

Aziraphale had only made it a metre when there was another screeching noise, this one much louder and somewhat distant. He glanced to his left, where the sound had come from, but all he could make out were the faint outlines of some sort of fortification, his view blocked by a large cluster of sharp-edged boulders.

For a heartbeat, Aziraphale just stared at the strange silhouettes standing out against the red sky, and then he abruptly realised where they were. Metatron’s Falling _here_ , of all places, had been no accident—this must be the place where _all_ of the demons had originally Fallen, just outside what was now the Gates of Hell. The heavily cratered ground suddenly made all too much sense.

Aziraphale swallowed heavily and swung his head back around, his eyes again fixing on the newest crater. He approached the lip cautiously, tensed for an attack.

But when the interior of the crater came into view, Metatron wasn’t there.

Aziraphale stepped suspiciously into the crater, eyes scanning back and forth, and that was when he felt something metallic crunch under his foot.

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat as he lifted his foot and looked down at the mangled remains of one half of the handcuffs, the short metal chain broken, the cuff twisted and scratched.

 _The sword,_ Aziraphale remembered, and that was when he felt a burst of warmth from somewhere behind him.

Aziraphale threw himself sideways just in time, half-rolling, half-falling along the edge of the crater as he heard the _whoomph_ of the flaming sword cutting through the air. He scrambled to his feet a heartbeat later, the crushed rocks of the crater’s floor shifting underfoot as he spun on Metatron and took a quick step backwards.

“I suppose you’re an angel again now, too?” Metatron snarled, eyes on Aziraphale’s borrowed wings. Before Aziraphale could reply, Metatron had half-leapt into the crater after him, glittery black dust swirling up around his feet as he landed. Aziraphale hastily retreated up the opposite slope of the crater, rocks shifting unsteadily under his feet. He had almost reached the crater’s lip when one section of rocks abruptly slid forward from under his foot, upsetting his balance and sending him falling backward, against the crater’s slope.

 _Bugger,_ Aziraphale thought, hitting the rocks hard. He scrambled back to his feet as quickly as he could, but Metatron had gained on him, and he only barely dodged a wild swipe of the flaming sword, feeling the warmth of the orange flames on his face.

There were more noises coming from the direction of the gate now, thumps and clatters and raised voices, and Aziraphale knew they wouldn’t be alone for long. Metatron paused in his pursuit of Aziraphale to glance towards the sounds, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to retreat as quickly as he could, putting some space between himself and Metatron.

Metatron’s head swung back around a moment later, and he scowled when he saw that Aziraphale had evaded him. He adjusted his grip on the Edenic sword and the flames burned a little brighter, tongues licking eagerly at the air.

But Aziraphale’s feet were on solid ground now, and he prepared to miracle himself a sword of his own with what little of Crowley’s power was left.

The thought hadn’t finished crossing Aziraphale’s mind when something white streaked towards the ground off to his right, followed by a tremendous crash, the ground quivering with the impact.

Metatron started forward and Aziraphale quickly retreated further, distracted yet again as several winged figures emerged from around the clump of sharp-edged boulders off to his left, coming from the direction of the gate.

Aziraphale took another hasty step back as Metatron continued to advance, and abruptly felt the back of his foot ram up against something behind him. Aziraphale didn’t dare take his eyes off Metatron, but his attempt to take another step back resulted in him backing up against what felt like a large, rugged boulder. Aziraphale retreated laterally along the uneven surface as Metatron began to close the distance between them, flames spluttering along the length of his Edenic sword.

There was a blur of motion off to Aziraphale’s right, and a heartbeat later Crowley half-ran, half-staggered over and threw himself in front of Aziraphale, his two remaining sets of wings spreading out to shield his partner.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said in surprise, his gaze hastily jumping to where Metatron was only a pace away, eyes blazing like the sword in his hand. Aziraphale pushed his way past Crowley’s protective wings and grabbed his partner’s arm, hastily dragging Crowley back. Crowley rasped in a deep, shaking breath, looking like he barely had the strength to keep his feet, but he stubbornly resisted Aziraphale’s attempts to pull him to safety.

Aziraphale shouldered his way impatiently in front of Crowley as Metatron reached them, ignoring Crowley’s sound of protest. Metatron raised his sword to strike and Aziraphale braced himself, drawing on what little magic Crowley still had left and making sure he was shielding his partner with his body as effectively as possible.

“And _what_ _exactly_ do you think you’re doing?” an authoritative voice demanded from the direction of the approaching figures.

Metatron brought the sword down, but it stopped dead a little under half a metre from Aziraphale’s chest, as though it had buried itself in an invisible barrier. Metatron struggled with the sword, now trying to pull it back towards himself, but it remained firmly lodged in thin air.

“What an interesting turn of events,” the voice continued, and Aziraphale looked over to see Lucifer striding towards them across the boulder-strewn landscape, Beelzebub to his right and Ishtyr—still looking nearly identical to Lucifer in every respect—on his left. The three of them looked confident and united, and Lucifer especially seemed much more relaxed and self-assured than the last time Aziraphale had seen him, before he had set out for Eden. Behind them trailed a sizeable crowd of curious-looking demons, a few angels and humans among them.

“Lucifer,” Metatron growled, still trying to yank the sword from the air, its flames all but petered out.

“I did not expect you to be joining us,” Lucifer said, striding closer, “but I admit I am not surprised.”

“Give me back my sword,” Metatron growled. “Let me kill this vermin.”

Aziraphale eyed Lucifer nervously and instinctively fanned his wings out a little further, trying to keep Crowley behind him. He watched Beelzebub’s gaze track back and forth between Aziraphale’s wings and Crowley’s, and he realised belatedly that perhaps keeping a set of Crowley’s wings manifested hadn’t been the best idea.

Lucifer considered Aziraphale and Crowley for a moment and then his gaze slid back to Metatron. “I am no longer in the business of killing angels,” he said mildly.

“But you—see how they cast me out!” Metatron shouted. “I—surely we are on the same side now? We can make a deal, there’re three of us now—”

Lucifer coughed. “Actually,” he said. “There are three of _us_ —” He motioned first to himself and Beelzebub, and then towards Crowley, “and I see only one of you.” And then Lucifer fanned out his wings, revealing six brilliant white primaries. Beelzebub did the same, his wings displaying the same pattern, and an excited buzz passed through the crowd. Aziraphale blinked at the two of them in astonishment.

Metatron’s aura darkened, growing even colder than before. “With or without you, I am the Voice of—”

“Yes, yes, enough of that,” Lucifer said, stepping forward and waving his hand. The spell keeping the sword lodged in place abruptly ceased, and Metatron staggered backwards, nearly hitting himself in the head with the hilt.

Lucifer glanced meaningfully at Aziraphale, who realised after a second what Lucifer wanted him to do. He quickly stepped forward, half-folding Crowley’s wings behind him, and wrenched the sword from Metatron’s grasp before he could try to light it again. “I think I’d better take that.”

Metatron lurched after Aziraphale but, again, an invisible barrier seemed to stop him. Aziraphale stepped back, adjusting his grip on the sword and recognising it as his own, the one he had once guarded Eden with.

Aziraphale retreated until he reached Crowley’s side, shifting the sword to his far hand and glancing at his partner in concern. Crowley met his gaze for a moment, and, though he looked utterly exhausted, he nodded, answering Aziraphale’s unspoken question.

Aziraphale considered returning the pair of wings he had borrowed to Crowley, but, as he scanned the ever-growing crowd of Hell’s citizens, he supposed it was a bit late for that. The secret of their soul bond had been the ace up their sleeve when they’d been laying low in Midfarthing, in case Heaven or Hell tried to go after them, but it was looking increasingly likely that neither of those scenarios would come to pass. It might have been useful to keep it a secret anyway, but given how many people had witnessed one part of their soul bond or another over the last span of hours, he supposed it was a bit of a moot point.

So he reached over and took Crowley’s hand with his free one instead, Crowley’s skin unnaturally warm against his own. He gave Crowley’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

“You see,” Lucifer said, eyes on Metatron, “I understand you reneged on a deal with my good friend here.” He gestured to Beelzebub.

“Not to mention, you _killed_ me,” Beelzebub hissed.

“And you cut down the Tree of Life,” Ishtyr added.

“That was inconvenient,” Lucifer summarised.

Metatron glowered at all three of them.

Lucifer reached into a small pocket in the front of his doublet, pulled something out, and handed it to Beelzebub. “Beelz, if you would do the honours…?”

Beelzebub smiled as he strode forward, grabbed the nearer of Metatron’s hands, and jammed a ring onto his finger.

Metatron immediately flinched back, yanking his hand from Beelzebub’s and trying to pull the ring off.

“Don’t bother,” Lucifer said. “It won’t come off.”

“What—what _is_ it?” Metatron hissed, doing his very best to pry the ring from his finger.

“You don’t recognise it?” Lucifer asked calmly, looking like he was enjoying this very much. “It’s the Seal of Solomon. It traps demons, and you certainly seem to fit that description.”

“I am doing the _will of God!”_ Metatron screamed. “You will all regret this, when He returns—”

“Sure, sure,” Lucifer said. “But in the meantime, this is Hell, and I rule here.”

Metatron glared at Lucifer and then unexpectedly lurched in Aziraphale and Crowley’s direction. He ran up the invisible barrier again but Aziraphale took a half-step back anyway, dragging Crowley with him. He steadied himself and raised the sword, peripherally aware of Crowley half-spreading his wings in a show of defiance.

“Do it, then,” Metatron growled, eyes flicking first to Crowley and then Aziraphale. “Take your revenge. Or are you too much of a coward?”

For a moment Aziraphale just looked at him, taken aback, and then he realised that Metatron wanted them to kill him.

“Something like that,” Crowley said.

“Er, yeah, you’re really not worth it,” Aziraphale agreed, lowering the sword. The sound of rapidly beating wings came from somewhere above them, and Aziraphale gave Metatron a grim smile. “And what’s coming next is going to be far more satisfying.”

Metatron glared at him as the air filled with white wings and six archangels touched down nearby, halfway between Metatron and the crowd of demons. They took a moment to get their bearings, looking around at where Beelzebub was still standing guard next to Metatron, wings half-unfurled.

“I _am_ popular today,” Lucifer said, taking a step towards the archangels. His gaze raked across them, and Aziraphale guessed he was looking for Michael.

“Lucifer,” Azrael said, stepping forward. “We wish you no offense. We are here for Metatron.”

“I see,” Lucifer said, and when he ruffled his wings slightly a faint ripple of surprise passed through the archangels.

“Is that—are you—?” Jophiel asked, sounding stymied.

“It seems Redemption comes for us all,” Lucifer said levelly.

There was an uneasy moment in which Jophiel glanced over at Uriel and Gabriel, who looked equally unsure. Aziraphale realised that many of them had probably been under the assumption that Redemption would only be an option for those of the Fallen who had sinned the least; if Lucifer himself had begun to unFall, then it followed that anyone— _everyone_ —could.

“You see?” Metatron hissed from the invisible box Beelzebub seemed to have penned him into. “You take _one_ rat in—” Here he glared at Crowley— “and before you know it there is a _swarm_.”

“Oh, shut up,” Beelzebub said, and whatever Metatron was about to say next failed to materialise, the seraph’s mouth working furiously but no sound coming forth.

“Will you let us deal with Metatron?” Azrael asked after a moment, turning her attention back to Lucifer. “He has committed a great offense against Heaven.”

Lucifer blinked at her. “And Hell is no longer punishment enough?”

There was another uneasy silence, and Aziraphale felt Crowley move a little closer, beginning to lean against him slightly. Aziraphale cast him a concerned look and saw that Crowley’s fatigued expression had grown, his far hand clamped over his injured side. Aziraphale quickly let go of Crowley’s hand so he could put his arm around Crowley’s shoulders instead, letting his partner lean against him more heavily as his wings drooped, the tips of his feathers brushing the rocky ground.

“It was my understanding that Hell was…turning over a new leaf,” Uriel ventured after a long moment.

Lucifer inclined his head. “It is.”

“And Metatron is a special case,” Jophiel added. “He is a seraph.”

There was another tense silence, the implications of that hanging in the air. Without Metatron, Heaven had no active seraphim of its own, apart from perhaps Crowley. Together, the seven archangels could potentially best a single seraph, but three demonic seraphim who had joined forces would be practically unstoppable.

“Just to be clear,” Beelzebub said into the silence, drawing the archangels’ attention, “we don’t want him any more than you do. If you have a nice deep pit to toss him into, I’ll drag him there myself.”

Metatron glared at Beelzebub, pressing his lips firmly together and continuing his attempt to wrench the Seal of Solomon from his finger.

“Is that the case?” Jophiel asked, turning his attention back to Lucifer.

“If Beelzebub says it is, then it is,” Lucifer agreed. “What did you have in mind?”

Jophiel glanced at Azrael, who in turn glanced over at Aziraphale and Crowley. Aziraphale, surprised to be consulted, shrugged. “I’m sure we can come up with a mutually agreeable arrangement,” he suggested. Next to him, he heard Crowley give a faint, short laugh.

Azrael turned back to Lucifer, who nodded his assent.

“I’m happy to keep an eye on him for the time being,” Beelzebub volunteered. “He won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, let me assure you.”

Jophiel frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could speak there was a ripple from the crowd of demons and a tall, thin demon pushed his way to the forefront. He hastily skidded to a halt when he saw the eyes of the seraphim and archangels on him, but it was too late now for him to retreat unnoticed.

“Oh, ah,” the newcomer said, and a moment later a young woman in a shapeless, slightly singed dress emerged from the crowd and stumbled to a halt behind him. Aziraphale didn’t recognise either of them, but the outermost primaries of the demon’s wings were white, just like Lucifer’s and Beelzebub’s. The newcomer glanced nervously at Lucifer and Beelzebub and then back at the archangels. “Sorry to interrupt, but I—I was wondering if Golgoth had reached you?”

A faint rumble rippled through the crowd.

“He—he was just Redeemed,” the demon continued nervously. “He went up to Heaven—will you let him in?”

The chatter of the crowd increased and then abruptly quieted, all eyes turning to the archangels. Azrael, who seemed to have become their de facto speaker, opened her mouth to reply and then hesitated. She glanced at Jophiel.

Jophiel seemed uncomfortable to have so much attention on him, frowning and glancing over at the other archangels. Aziraphale abruptly remembered what Kazariel had told him on the phone only yesterday, at the beginning of this whole mess, about how Michael and Jophiel were the two main holdouts among the archangels where accepting Redemption was concerned. Michael had just publicly denounced Metatron in Heaven, though, leaving Jophiel as the only dissident.

Jophiel opened his mouth and paused, eyes sweeping across the crowd of demons. Their faces were upturned and expectant, some gazes hopeful, a smattering of white feathers visible. Aziraphale knew that Jophiel, as the archangel in charge of Heaven’s defence, was always paranoid about security threats, and had advocated the idea of Redeemed angels posing a threat even as far back as when Crowley had been newly Redeemed. But, at least to Aziraphale, this crowd of demons didn’t look like an organised enemy; they looked like lost children trying to find their way home.

Aziraphale watched Jophiel closely as the archangel seemed to turn something similar over in his own head. At long last, he drew a deep breath and cast a slight glance at Azrael. “It has come to my attention that misinformation has been spread in Heaven about the nature of Redemption,” Jophiel said carefully. “Metatron seems to have been the chief architect of this, but others are not without blame.” He shifted his weight slightly, looking out over the sea of hopeful faces, more demons steadily trickling through the gate and joining the back of the crowd with every passing second, struggling to see over the heads of their neighbours.

“But if a demon is Redeemed, if they can demonstrate by their actions that they have made a change for the better, and if their feathers have turned white, then…” Jophiel hesitated. “Then we are happy to welcome them back to Heaven.”

A great cheer went up from the crowd, and Azrael gave Jophiel a look that was almost approving. Aziraphale smiled and squeezed Crowley’s shoulder, a wave of relief rushing through him. Metatron, trapped in his invisible box and still under the influence of Beelzebub’s silencing charm and the Seal of Solomon, glared daggers at anyone foolish enough to look his way.

“We should return to Heaven,” Azrael said, glancing at the other archangels. “Settle our business there and decide on a plan of action for Metatron.”

“Surely we can’t just leave him here in the meantime?” Jophiel asked, looking very much like he had never been applauded in his life and didn’t know quite how to handle it.

“He will be most uncomfortable, I assure you,” Beelzebub said. “He will be no trouble.”

Jophiel cast Azrael an uncertain look.

Aziraphale took a step forward, drawing Crowley along with him, and addressed his next words to Azrael and Jophiel. “I believe Beelzebub can be trusted.”

This seemed to be good enough for Azrael, as she nodded gratefully and exchanged another look with Jophiel, who shrugged agreement.

“We will return shortly,” Azrael said to Lucifer. She spread her wings, and the other five archangels followed suit. They began to push off one by one, Azrael waiting for them to take to the air first.

Aziraphale realised he was still holding the Edenic sword and shoved it awkwardly through his belt; he’d have to miracle up another scabbard later. He turned to Crowley next and felt a rush of concern when he saw how pale his partner was, Crowley’s breaths shallow and short. “Are you all right, my dear?”

Crowley shrugged.

Aziraphale heard someone approaching and looked up to see Azrael nearing, the last of the other archangels taking off behind her. “Do you need any help?” she asked, eyes on Crowley.

Crowley glanced at her and shook his head mutely, steadying himself on Aziraphale’s arm.

“No thanks,” Aziraphale told her. “We might be a couple minutes, though.”

“Understood,” Azrael said. She turned her gaze back to Crowley. “You fought bravely. For exposing Metatron, Heaven is in your debt.”

Crowley gaze a short laugh and Azrael frowned at him. Then she met Aziraphale’s gaze, nodded shortly, and pushed off, wings spreading wide as she climbed into the air after the other archangels.

Crowley drew a deep breath, visibly trying to steady himself, and slowly spread his own wings, eyes on the crowd of demons watching them curiously. “Okay, angel, let’s—let’s go.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked worriedly. “We can wait a minute.”

Crowley shook his head. “Nah, I—I’ll be all right.”

Aziraphale was unconvinced but let Crowley take a few steps forward on his own, only trembling slightly. Several demons in the crowd shouted out something that sounded like Crowley’s name, and Crowley gave them a wave and a smile. They cheered more.

Aziraphale trailed after him uncertainly, realising that Crowley didn’t want to let on how badly he was hurt while in such a public space.

Crowley pushed off slower than usual, his two sets of wings beating furiously to compensate, but he made it into the air, brilliant white feathers gleaming against the dark sky.

“Thanks for the help,” Aziraphale told Beelzebub as he prepared to follow Crowley. “We really will be back for Metatron, though.”

From his invisible box, Metatron glared daggers at Aziraphale.

“He killed me, remember,” Beelzebub reminded Aziraphale. “And there is more hope in the Abyss now than ever before. Trust me, we don’t want him here.”

“Great,” Aziraphale said. “And…I know I was short with you earlier, but I really do appreciate what you did for Crowley in Eden. Thank you.”

Beelzebub inclined his head, and Aziraphale nodded his farewell before pushing off. He gained altitude quickly and had soon caught up with Crowley, the pair of them together ascending Heavenward.

 

~~***~~

 

Crowley felt himself grow increasingly dizzy as he climbed higher, the hazy mist around him growing lighter as they left Hell behind. Aziraphale was only a few metres beneath him, following him upwards.

The strokes of Crowley’s wings slowed as a wave of nausea passed over him, and he just hovered there for a moment, one hand pressed to his blood-smeared side as he struggled to rasp in deep enough breaths, feeling very lightheaded.

It took him a moment to realise that Aziraphale had stopped next to him, drifting as close as he dared and letting his wings fall into pace with Crowley’s.

“My dear?”

Crowley took as deep of a breath as he could and forced his wings to beat faster, pulling him further from Hell. The mist around him was growing lighter, and he knew they would be nearing Earth soon.

A grey haze began to creep in around the edges of Crowley’s vision as he pushed himself higher still, feeling Aziraphale’s alarm flare through him. But then there was a flash of green and Crowley pulled his wings back, stalling his motion and clumsily transitioning to the physical plane just as the last of his strength gave out.

He fell almost a metre to the ground, legs collapsing and sending him sprawling onto a grassy slope.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice said, shot through with fear, and a few moments later Crowley felt his partner’s hand on his shoulder.

“I just—need a—minute,” Crowley gasped, and sank the rest of the way onto the grass, waiting for the dizziness to recede. He pressed his nose into the long, wild grass and focussed on just sucking in breaths, the scents of honeysuckle and juniper lying heavy around him.

He could feel Aziraphale hovering worriedly over him, one hand still resting on his shoulder. A faint tingle passed through Crowley, and he knew Aziraphale was trying to heal him. Unfortunately, Crowley was all but out of power, and he shivered as he felt Aziraphale scrape up the last of it, leaving him feeling hollow and empty.

“Is it your side?” Aziraphale asked worriedly. “I’ll get you to hospital; Heaven can wait.”

“Just…hold on,” Crowley rasped, closing his eyes and wishing his head would stop spinning. He had been relatively all right earlier, but the spell Metatron had used on him right there at the end of their duel had been excruciating. It had felt like Metatron was trying to unmake him, pulling at the very atoms of his being and trying to wrench them apart, and Crowley hadn’t been able to fully heal himself from it. It was his fault, for having let his guard drop in the first place, but it had shaken him a great deal more than he cared to admit. And then, when he had crash-landed in Hell, he had seriously wrenched his side. To top it off, shortly thereafter the adrenaline that had been masking the pain had worn off all at once.

Crowley just stayed there on the grass for a long moment, drawing as steady of breaths as he could and feeling the dizziness slowly recede, his side throbbing viciously. As he calmed, he found the strength to wonder absently where they were, noting that he could hear the faint sound of running water. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he and Aziraphale were on a shallow slope that dipped down towards a small stream. Bulrushes swayed gently in the breeze, and some ways in the distance he could see the silhouette of what looked like a small castle.

When he felt well enough, he slowly sat up, feeling the dizziness return slightly. Aziraphale, who was sitting next to him and watching him worriedly, touched him gently on the elbow.

“Are you okay, my dear?”

Crowley gave a short, slow nod. “Y—yeah. Just…got dizzy all of a sudden.”

Aziraphale made a noise of understanding and shifted closer. Crowley accepted the invitation and leaned against him, feeling Aziraphale’s arm wrap securely around his shoulders. Crowley turned his head so his nose was pressed against Aziraphale’s shoulder and just drank in his partner’s proximity, so familiar and reassuring beyond words. And just then, with Aziraphale’s arm around him, sitting by this quiet stream who knew where, Crowley suddenly felt completely and utterly _safe_ in a way he’d thought he never would again.

Crowley started shaking, the memories of the armoury coming back to him, still far too fresh, and he turned more towards Aziraphale so he could throw his arms around his partner’s neck, burying his face in Aziraphale’s collar.

“I’ve got you,” Aziraphale told him quickly, wrapping his other arm around Crowley and pulling him close, their legs awkwardly tangling. “Oh, Crowley, I’m here.”

All of the physical and emotional stress of the last two days rushed over Crowley all at once, and he felt himself start crying, the few tears he had left springing to his eyes. He felt stretched thin, wrung out by the torture and pain, and in comparison Aziraphale seemed almost full, brimming with whatever it was about him that Crowley loved so much.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Aziraphale said, stroking one hand through Crowley’s hair as Crowley clung to him more tightly. “I should never have left you at that hospital alone; it was all a trick by Metatron to get you on your own. He was trying to Fall you, that was his plan all along—”

Crowley nodded hastily, face still pressed against Aziraphale’s shoulder; Ludwig and the others had filled him in on what was happening while they’d been waiting for Metatron and Aziraphale’s arrival.

“I—I came as quickly as I could, but, oh God, Crowley, I felt what he was doing to you.” Crowley felt Aziraphale pull him even closer, the motion so comforting. “I should have been quicker—I _could_ have been quicker, we just wanted to get Metatron too, and we had an opportunity to trap him—but then you had to _fight_ him, and you were _terrific,_ but I’m so, _so_ _sorry_ —”

“Sss—ssstop apologisssing,” Crowley rasped, just soaking in Aziraphale’s presence and the knowledge that, maybe, it really was all over this time.

“But I—I should have been there for you, should have protected you—”

“You ressscued me,” Crowley reminded him, turning his head and pressing his nose against Aziraphale’s neck. “He—” Crowley remembered the meathook Metatron had been about to drive into his wing before he’d been interrupted, and he let out a shaking breath, the fear gripping him anew. “Thank you for ressscuing me.”

Aziraphale adjusted his grip on Crowley, running a hand up and down his back in soothing strokes as Crowley felt himself start shaking again. “Oh, my dear, of course I rescued you. But I’m still sorry you had to go through it at all.”

Crowley sniffled and one of his hands found the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, where he carefully interlaced his fingers with Aziraphale’s soft curls.

They stayed that way for a long few moments, Crowley’s shaking slowly ceasing as he relaxed, just focussing on Aziraphale’s proximity. He still felt very unwell, his side sinking claws of pain into him with each breath, but that seemed so unimportant, since he was safe here in Aziraphale’s arms.

“I…suppose we should get going,” Crowley said at last, making no move to stand. “They’ll be wondering where we got to. Might think Beelzebub did us in.”

Aziraphale made a noise of amused agreement, his chest rumbling under Crowley’s head. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Eh,” Crowley said, and reluctantly started pulling away from Aziraphale. “Oh, and—ah—sorry for scaring you again, angel. I know you told me not to.”

“Oh, _my dear_ ,” Aziraphale began immediately, sounding a little distressed, but then he saw the teasing smile on Crowley’s face and relaxed slightly. He huffed a faint laugh as he released Crowley from his arms and helped him up.

Crowley’s head only swam a little as he gained his feet, and after a few seconds it steadied. He kept one hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and pressed his other gingerly to his side, which burned at the contact. He’d miracled up some new bandages and rewrapped the wound while Ludwig had been filling him in on the plan, but he hadn’t had any time to deal with the pulled sutures.

“I’ll need more stitches,” Crowley said, grimacing at the thought.

“We can go to hospital as soon as Metatron’s sorted out,” Aziraphale promised.

“And then home?” Crowley asked hopefully. The last two days felt like a month, and he was so ready to just go back to Midfarthing and sleep it all off, preferably in Aziraphale’s company.

“And then home,” Aziraphale agreed.

Crowley started to move his hand from Aziraphale’s shoulder, shaking out his ethereal wings, and suddenly noticed the smears of red along the upper part of Aziraphale’s neck.

“You’re bleeding,” Crowley said in alarm, abruptly remembering the sword Metatron had held to Aziraphale’s throat. He moved closer, trying to get a better look.

Aziraphale seemed surprised for a moment, and then raised a hand to his neck. “Oh, yeah, that. It’s just a scratch.”

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked worriedly, moving his own hand closer and feeling the smears of blood for himself, tacky and half-dried.

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” Aziraphale assured him. “Though there might, er, be some blood in your hair now. Sorry about that.”

Crowley started to draw his hand away and his gaze fell on his bare fingers. All at once, a bolt of shame went through him, and he quickly snatched his hand back.

The faint smile on Aziraphale’s face vanished, a hand going to the side of his neck where Crowley’s had been, as though he thought something there had spooked him. “What?”

“Metatron—before he left, he—he realised I had a ring,” Crowley confessed, the fingers of his right hand pressing against his left, where his wedding band ought to have been. “He took it, and just—just—vaporised it. I tried to stop him, but…”

Aziraphale’s look of alarm quickly faded as he relaxed, and Crowley felt a wave of relief rush through him that wasn’t his own.

“He—he destroyed it,” Crowley clarified in case Aziraphale hadn’t heard him properly, timidly holding out his unadorned left hand. Aziraphale, he saw, was still wearing the ring Crowley had given him, and Crowley felt a wave of inadequacy at the thought of how easily Metatron had taken his.

“Oh, Crowley, I can get you another ring,” Aziraphale said, and pulled Crowley into a tight hug.

“But—but it’s my _wedding_ ring,” Crowley protested plaintively, accepting the hug he didn’t feel he deserved in the slightest. He still remembered Aziraphale sliding it onto his finger, and how unbelievably happy he had been in that moment. That ring was a symbol, a tactile memory of the best day of his life, and any other ring just would not do. “It wouldn’t be the _same.”_

“We’ll figure something out, my dear,” Aziraphale told him soothingly, giving his back a pat. “It’s not the ring that’s irreplaceable.”

“But—but those were the ones we said our vows over…” Crowley protested, feeling rotten and wishing that he had never allowed himself to be parted from it in the first place.

“Look, Crowley, it’s a shame but you said Metatron vaporised it?” Aziraphale asked, pulling away and putting his hands on Crowley’s shoulders.

Crowley nodded miserably.

“Then we can’t get it back,” Aziraphale said sensibly. “But it’s just a symbol—that’s all it is. I didn’t make my vows to a ring, my dear; I made them to you.”

Crowley sniffled and felt himself colour slightly. “I know…”

“Here,” Aziraphale said, rubbing Crowley’s shoulders lightly. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll get you another one and I’ll say my vows over that one as well. How’s that sound?”

Crowley thought it over and found the compromise adequate, if not ideal. He sniffled again and nodded.

“Good,” Aziraphale said, and leaned forward and kissed him. Crowley sank into the contact, not knowing how much he’d needed it until that moment. They parted far too soon, Aziraphale glancing at his watch. “We’d really better get going.”

Crowley nodded sadly and flexed his ethereal wings, ignoring the prickling in his side. He drew a deep breath and set about stamping down his lingering pain and fear, pushing them aside for now as he readied himself for their return to Heaven. There would be plenty of time for processing everything that had happened later, he knew, but right now he had to go and be Crowley the Redeemed.

Aziraphale waited until he was ready, and then the two of them pushed off together. They transitioned back to the ethereal plane as they reached the treetops, vanishing from the riverbank and fading back into the faint white mist.


	32. The New Heaven

“…but that was before I realised the extent of his plan,” Michael was saying to the assembled archangels as Crowley and Aziraphale stepped down onto the grass of Heaven, Crowley breathing a little unevenly again but looking much better for the short break.

“Admittedly he had me quite convinced by his lies,” Michael continued, “of which I am not proud, but then God sent a messenger to me, and I was shown the error of Metatron’s ways—”

He broke off as a cheer erupted from the nearby crowd of angels as they spotted Crowley, most of the archangels turning to see what the commotion was about.

Crowley offered them a friendly wave. He elbowed Aziraphale, who awkwardly gave them a much smaller wave.

“Can’t hurt, right?” Crowley said to Aziraphale in an undertone.

“Finally!” Azrael said, striding towards them. “We were waiting to make the announcement until you arrived. Now…” she turned, scanning the field. Someone had miracled it flat again, the scorch marks similarly vanished, leaving the grass just as unnervingly perfect as it had been before Crowley and Metatron had set foot there. The archangels were clustered near the wall marking the edge of Heaven, surrounded by a crowd of angels positively buzzing with excitement.

“…where did Golgoth wander off to?” Azrael muttered, and strode away.

Aziraphale spotted Ludwig standing near the edge of the crowd, his bright blue riding jacket making him easy to identify, and offered him a wave. Ludwig was standing next to a number of wingless figures, Aziraphale saw with surprise, but before he could look closer one of them had detached itself and was jogging closer.

“Crowley, Aziraphale!” Adam greeted as he reached them.

Aziraphale stared at him in astonishment. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, er, it doesn’t matter,” Adam said, looking slightly guilty. “I heard Crowley’s injured?” He turned his gaze to Crowley, who ruffled his wings uncomfortably.

“I don’t think you can help,” Crowley said.

“It can’t be healed by magical means,” Aziraphale clarified.

Adam gave them both a bright smile. “It wouldn’t have been caused by an Edenic blade forged by angels, would it?”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a surprised glance. Aziraphale drew his sword and showed it to Adam. “It would have been very similar to this one.”

“Blimey, you’ve got one too?” Adam asked, eyes studying the blade. “But yes, I should be able to heal any injuries it caused.”

Aziraphale blinked at Adam in surprise. “Really?” he asked, at the same time as Crowley said, “Oh, that would be great.”

“The wounds it inflicts can’t be healed by _angels_ ,” Adam explained, “or demons, for that matter, but my power skipped a generation.”

Aziraphale absorbed that and turned to Crowley, who was looking hopeful.

“Metatron stabbed Michael with that sword earlier, tried to kill him,” Adam said by way of explanation. “I managed to heal him, though it took a bit longer than usual. So I should be able to be of some use…?”

“Please, go ahead,” Crowley said. “I’d gladly skip the year-long recovery.”

“Okay, it’ll go faster if I can touch you near the injury…” Adam eyed Crowley.

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale and shrugged. “Works for me.” He looked around and motioned for Adam to follow him the short distance to the low stone wall.

Aziraphale was about to follow them, unwilling to let Crowley out of his sight, when he saw Jophiel drifting towards him.

“Er, hello,” Aziraphale said, nervously adjusting his grip on his sword, which he’d been a lot more comfortable with before he’d learned that Metatron had recently used it to stab Michael.

“That’s quite the sword,” Jophiel said, eyes flicking down to it.

“…yes,” Aziraphale agreed hesitantly.

“One of the four swords forged to guard Eden and then enchanted to serve as keys to lock it.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed again, tightening his grip on the sword.

“This one is for the…” Jophiel glanced at it again. “Eastern Gate, am I correct?”

Aziraphale frowned at Jophiel. “Yes. It was given to me to guard Eden.”

“I know,” Jophiel said, giving Aziraphale an unsettling look. “I remember you. You worked for me, back then. Before you gave this sword to Adam and Eve and were demoted and reassigned.”

“So?” Aziraphale asked guardedly, wondering where this was going. A bit distractedly, he felt the pain in his side, a shadow of what plagued Crowley, beginning to fade, and knew Adam must be making good progress.

“This sword was recovered by Heaven millennia ago,” Jophiel said, “and remained in Heaven’s vaults all that time, until it mysteriously went missing right about the same time you and Crowley vanished from Heaven.”

Aziraphale felt a guilty lump form in his throat.

“You wouldn’t…know anything about that, would you?”

“Er,” Aziraphale said. “No?”

Jophiel frowned at him and took a single, measured step to one side, as though he wanted to pace around Aziraphale and then changed his mind. “You see, Aziraphale, all of my guards are very loyal. Only the most trustworthy are assigned to guard Heaven’s most prized treasures. And yet…when I asked every angel who had guarded the vault during the time this sword went missing if they knew anything of its whereabouts…not a single one of them seemed to have the faintest idea.” Jophiel pivoted towards Aziraphale and fixed him with a level gaze, eyes boring into Aziraphale. “This implies a possible high-level security concern.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, mind drifting back to a half-remembered conversation with Kazariel about how exactly she had procured the sword on their behalf. He seemed to recall it had entailed bribing a guard with one of Crowley’s still-black feathers, which had been quite the hot commodity at the time. “I don’t think I’d worry too much about it.”

Jophiel continued gazing at him coolly, evidently wondering whether or not to accept this information.

“I’m sure that, if whoever took the sword had been interested in anything else, they would have taken it at the same time,” Aziraphale said carefully, and took a casual step to the side, following Jophiel.

The archangel made a faint noise in his throat.

“Perhaps it was Metatron?” Aziraphale suggested. “He certainly ended up with it somehow; you saw him fighting Crowley with it.”

Jophiel narrowed his eyes at him, and Aziraphale knew he saw straight through that lie.

“In any case,” Aziraphale said sweetly, “as the victor of the fight, Crowley won it fairly from Metatron, and he has since entrusted it to me.”

Aziraphale watched Jophiel grind his teeth together, but he knew that Jophiel had no proof Aziraphale had stolen it in the first place, and therefore no real grounds to demand it be returned.

“Jophiel!” Raphael’s voice called, and Aziraphale and Jophiel both glanced over to see the archangels convened in a neat half-circle not far away, Golgoth standing before them.

“Also, something else occurred to me,” Aziraphale said before Jophiel had a chance to leave. “Metatron broke into Eden, so if you do not believe that he used this sword to do so, then which one did he have in his possession? Perhaps there has been more than one theft of swords in your vaults.”

Jophiel frowned at him long and hard, and then sighed heavily. “Just…don’t go giving it away to any more humans,” he grumbled, and strode back towards the other archangels.

“The council of archangels has reached a decision regarding the matter of Redemption,” Michael announced when Jophiel had taken his place. The crowd of angels clustered a little closer, the excited buzz dying down as everyone quieted to hear the verdict.

“The demon Golgoth has been Redeemed and returned to us as an angel again,” Michael continued, and Golgoth inclined his head in recognition, appearing far more calm than he had any right to be. “Opinions on Redemption have been split, but in light of recent events it is the joint belief of the archangels that we have chosen the correct path for the future of Heaven, according to the will of our Father, and we expect all in Heaven to respect our decision.”

A murmur went through the crowd, and then another hush fell over it.

“Golgoth,” Michael said, turning his attention to the newly unFallen angel standing in their midst. “We recognise you as an angel again, and welcome you home.”

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, those at the front beginning to surge forward. Somewhere, someone blew a celebratory horn.

“Let it be known that we will recognise in the same manner any other of the Fallen, human or demon, who return to us fully Redeemed,” Michael concluded, but before he’d even finished his sentence the crowd had begun to engulf Golgoth, who was grinning with relief.

Aziraphale smiled too, and was about to join Crowley by the wall when Golgoth raised his hands, motioning for quiet. Several people shouted for a speech. Someone miracled up some sort of soapbox for the rather short Golgoth, and he climbed atop it so that he could see above the sea of heads.

“Hello, everyone!” he called, voice carrying surprisingly well. There was an answering cheer from the crowd, which then settled into a sort of excited hush.

“I am honoured to be in Heaven again,” Golgoth continued, “and cannot express enough my gratitude for your kind words.” This he addressed to Michael, who seemed suitably flattered and slightly annoyed.

“I assure you that I shall do my utmost to help Heaven in any way I can,” Golgoth continued, “but I know Redemption is difficult and can seem impossible at times, so I will be spending a great deal of time helping our brothers and sisters still seeking it, in the Abyss!”

This garnered another cheer, albeit slightly smaller, and Aziraphale could have sworn he heard Kazariel wolf-whistle.

“I encourage you to join me, if you are willing!” Golgoth shouted. “There are many angels helping already, and we are greatly indebted to them for their kindness and generosity.

“There is one more thing I’d like to say,” Golgoth continued when the crowd had quieted again. “You know me as Golgoth, but as you have probably guessed that isn’t the name our Father gave me. Redemption…through Redemption I have been given a second chance,” Golgoth said, voice strengthening. “In commemoration of the archangels’ decision, and the grace that has been visited upon me, I would like to pick a new name.”

The crowd hummed with curiosity. Aziraphale suddenly remembered Crowley telling him that, when Golgoth had visited them at the hospital and asked for advice on picking a new name, Crowley had offered Golgoth his own, original name. That was a name Crowley had never freely shared with Aziraphale, and one which Aziraphale had never felt quite right prying about.

“I have thought at length about what name would be fitting,” Golgoth said, the crowd hanging on his every word, “and I might still be searching for one had I not received the most wonderful suggestion from a mentor and friend of mine.” He looked for Crowley, but he was fairly far out of Golgoth’s line of sight, so Golgoth settled for nodding slightly in Aziraphale’s direction instead.

“The name I have chosen is in honour of the work I plan to pursue,” Golgoth continued, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. “Henceforth, I ask that you call me Phanuel, for I would like my Redemption to bring hope to all.”

 _Phanuel_ , Aziraphale repeated to himself, barely hearing the cheers of the crowd as they roared their approval. _The_ _Hope of God._

Aziraphale felt his sinuses begin to burn as he turned, spotting Crowley sitting on the low stone wall not far behind him, Adam next to him.

Aziraphale strode swiftly towards his partner, Crowley standing up and giving him a faint smile as he approached. Aziraphale took a moment to recognise that Adam had done a fantastic job of healing Crowley—he barely felt any pain through his connection to Crowley, just a general sense of fatigue—and then he reached Crowley and threw his arms around him.

“Oh, it’s a such a beautiful name,” Aziraphale told him, quickly pulling Crowley close. “But no wonder you hated it! It must have seemed like the cruelest irony.”

Crowley made a faint noise of agreement as Aziraphale pulled away and moved a hand to the side of Crowley’s neck, thumb on his jaw, gazing into the eyes he had known for so long by a different name.

“Phanuel,” Aziraphale said gently, the name pleasant but unfamiliar on his tongue.

But Crowley shook his head. “I’m not Phanuel anymore.” He nodded towards Golgoth. “He is. I’m just Crowley.”

Aziraphale felt a well of emotion rise in him as he moved his hand up to Crowley’s cheek, caressing the side of his partner’s face. “Oh, my dear,” he said, meeting Crowley’s eyes again, so beautiful and golden, holding just that tiny fleck of ice blue. “You are not ‘just’ anything.” And Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed him.

Across the field, Father Gilbert stared at the angel previously known as Golgoth and felt true surprise for the first—or perhaps second—time in his very long existence. Yet…as he watched the angels surging towards Golgoth as he stepped down from his soapbox, he couldn’t help but think that it was such an appropriate turn of events. The mantle of hope had been passed, but its new recipient seemed just as worthy as its old.

“Pardon me,” Harahel said, edging past Father Gilbert and out of the crowd. He paused and turned back for a moment, giving Father Gilbert a pointed glance. “I have something to make right.” He made a beeline for where Aziraphale and Crowley appeared to be having a grand old time snogging by the edge of Heaven.

“Ahem,” Adam’s voice said, cutting through Aziraphale’s reverie. “I think someone wants to talk to you.”

Aziraphale very reluctantly parted from Crowley, but when he glanced over and recognised the figure approaching them, he hastily whipped his hands away from Crowley as though he’d been caught with his hand in the biscuit jar.

He saw Crowley give him a surprised look, but he followed Aziraphale’s lead, keeping his hands to himself as Harahel approached. Unfortunately, nothing could be done for the frankly alarming state of Crowley’s hair.

“Aziraphale,” Harahel said as he reached them, giving Aziraphale an almost cautious look. When his eyes roved over Crowley next, his gaze seemed to be caught between confusion and disapproval.

“H—Harahel,” Aziraphale said in surprise. “You, er—you left the library.”

“Yes,” Harahel said, folding his arms. Aziraphale wondered a bit belatedly how many times that had been pointed out to him already.

“Er…this is Crowley,” Aziraphale said, gesturing at Crowley.

“We’ve met,” Crowley said, and gave Harahel a friendly smile. Harahel frowned at him.

“Er,” Aziraphale said again, still off guard at the sight of Harahel outside of the library. His wings looked whiter than Aziraphale had ever seen them, with hardly any dust left clinging to them at all.

Harahel was still frowning at Crowley, this time surveying his ruffled hair, and Aziraphale coughed awkwardly and leapt to his and Crowley’s mutual defence. “Crowley and I…er…we got married.”

Surprise crossed Harahel’s features, again quickly replaced with that same strange mix of confusion and disapproval. “Is…that so?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and grabbed Crowley’s hand to show that he meant it. Crowley gave Harahel another smile, this one weak.

Harahel frowned. “Recently?”

“Er,” Aziraphale said. “Four years ago.”

Harahel’s expression was difficult to read. “You did not think that…perhaps I would like to know?”

Aziraphale swallowed another ‘er.’ “I…I was going to let you know the next time I was in Heaven,” he tried. “But it’s just been a really busy four years, and…you know how it is.”

Harahel’s expression indicated that he did not, in fact, _know_.

“You—you’re welcome to visit us!” Aziraphale said quickly. “If you’re going to be leaving the library now. I’d love for you to see our place on Earth.”

“Earth,” Harahel repeated, as though the concept were unfamiliar to him.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed as brightly as he could. “I’ve quite the library of my own there.”

Something shifted in Harahel’s expression then. “There is…something I need to speak with you about.”

“…okay,” Aziraphale said when Harahel was not forthcoming.

Harahel eyed where Aziraphale and Crowley were holding hands, his gaze almost sad. “Perhaps another time, though.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale said again. “You really are welcome to visit us.”

Harahel seemed to consider the offer. “All right,” he said at last. “Earth. Yes, maybe I will. I can see your…place.”

“Absolutely!” Aziraphale agreed brightly.

Harahel nodded and hovered there for another long moment, again seeming very conflicted. Then he reached forward, awkwardly patted Aziraphale on the shoulder, and walked away.

Aziraphale heard Crowley let out a breath as soon as Harahel was out of earshot. “What was _that_ about?”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Harahel is…well, to be honest, he’s never quite approved of you.”

Crowley blinked at him. “Really? He seemed…well, maybe not friendly, but amiable enough the last time I talked to him.”

“Yeah, he and I…well, to be honest, he said you were bad news right from the start. Seemed to think you were going to make me Fall. So, I mean, I guess he was right.”

“Oh. Er, sorry about that.”

“It’s all right, my dear,” Aziraphale assured him, giving Crowley’s hand a pat. “Harahel and I had a bit of a falling out in the thirteenth century, and he agreed after that to stop trying to convince me you were going to stab me in the back.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah,” Aziraphale agreed, staring in the direction Harahel had gone. “He’s really quite personable, once you get to know him, but he really mistrusts demons. I guess some of the demons, back before the Fall, learned a lot of powerful spells from the library and used them against Heaven in the rebellion.”

“Oh.”

Aziraphale rubbed the back of Crowley’s hand absentmindedly. “I thought about inviting him to the wedding, I really did, but honestly I didn’t think he’d ever leave that library. And, frankly…I wasn’t sure how he’d react.”

“To us?” Crowley asked.

“Yeah,” Aziraphale confirmed. “I think he’ll come around, though. He just needs some time.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement, and Aziraphale reached over to straighten his hair out for him.

“Hang on, is that…Bert?” Crowley asked suddenly, staring across the field at where the crowd had begun to disperse, a group of wingless figures standing a short distance from the others.

Aziraphale followed his gaze in surprise and the two of them started towards the cluster of familiar-looking figures. The one who looked like Bert saw them coming and moved closer to meet them. Aziraphale’s gaze jumped past him in surprise to someone who looked suspiciously like Donnie, and, beyond them, Beth and two children.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale said, striding closer.

“Is that… _Father Gilbert?”_ Crowley asked in astonishment, his gaze tracking a figure that quickly detached itself from the group and started in the direction of the archangels. “Or maybe…maybe not…”

Aziraphale moved to follow his gaze, but just then Bert reached them.

“Crowley, I’m glad to see you’re all right!” Bert said, giving the seraph a hearty handshake. “That was one hell of a fight.”

“Oh, ah, thanks,” Crowley said, and then abruptly broke off as Bert turned and socked Aziraphale across the jaw.

“Ow!” Aziraphale protested, taking an automatic step back as pain blossomed across the side of his face.

“Hey, hey,” Crowley interjected quickly, taking a step to the side so he was half in front of his partner, wings automatically fanning out slightly.

“You have some _explaining_ to do,” Bert growled, glaring past Crowley at Aziraphale. “And then you are going to _put this right_ , you understand me?”

“Put…put what right?” Aziraphale asked bemusedly, one hand pressed to his mouth, where he could taste blood. He looked in confusion from Bert to Crowley, who looked equally perplexed and slightly concerned.

“I sent Donnie to bring you that bloody sword,” Bert hissed, “because _you_ wanted it so badly, and then you just let her _die?”_

Aziraphale blinked at Bert in shock, his hand still hovering over his lips. “What?”

Donnie, who had moved towards them along with another woman Aziraphale didn’t recognise, put her hand on Bert’s elbow.

“She—she died in that damn field, right under _your_ nose,” Bert accused, stabbing a finger at Aziraphale. “She says she…she wound up in Hell, so you’re going to make sure she can stay in Heaven, got it?”

Aziraphale just blinked at Bert as Crowley looked between them, bemused, and then all of sudden Aziraphale realised what must have happened.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. He stepped forward, motioning for Donnie to come forward. “I think I know what the matter is.”

Donnie frowned uncertainly but moved forward nonetheless, and Aziraphale studied her closely for a moment.

“Ah, yes, she’s not dead,” Aziraphale said.

There was a brief moment of silence, during which Crowley drifted closer so he could check as well.

“Wh—what?” Donnie said at last.

“Er, sorry about the confusion,” Aziraphale said, giving Donnie’s shoulder an awkward pat. “You were in the field and then you were in Hell, right? In this big sort of…open-air shaft?”

Donnie blinked at him and then glanced back at Bert, who still seemed to be processing the news. “…yes.”

“Yeah,” Aziraphale said. “I should have explained. That field’s a hellgate.”

“A—a what?” the other woman standing by Bert asked.

“A hellgate,” Aziraphale repeated. “A very large, rather invisible portal to Hell. You must have walked into it by accident after I left.” He gave Donnie an apologetic look. “Sorry about that.”

“So I…I’m _not_ dead?” Donnie asked, staring at Aziraphale with poorly disguised hope.

“Not at all,” Aziraphale said breezily.

“Perfectly alive,” Crowley agreed.

Donnie let out a long breath and took a half-step backwards, looking relieved beyond words. She turned to Bert and threw her arms around him, pulling him into a hug. Bert seemed similarly stunned as he pulled Donnie close.

“I guess…sorry about the…” Bert said, his eyes finding Aziraphale. He briefly lifted a hand from Donnie’s shoulder to motion towards Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his aching jaw and knowing he’d have to wait a few more minutes before Crowley had recovered enough power to heal it.

“But what are you all doing here?” Crowley asked, gazing around at the assembled humans. In addition to Bert, Donnie, and the other woman, Aziraphale could see Mara and her little boy Henry Ambrose and, beyond them, Beth and Adam, who were in a somewhat heated-looking discussion while their two children sat nearby and watched their parents uncertainly. “It’s like half of Midfarthing turned out! How did you all get here? The rest of you aren’t dead, are you?”

“We don’t think so,” Bert said, unwinding his arms from around Donnie and gesturing to the unfamiliar woman on his other side. “The rest of it’s a long story, but have you met—this is Ann.”

Ann stepped forward, giving them both warm smiles and extending her hand. “I understand you’re friends of Bert’s?” she asked, shaking first Crowley’s hand and then Aziraphale’s, eyes drifting over their shoulders. “Are you angels?”

“He is…” Aziraphale said, motioning towards Crowley, and then suddenly put together the name and the fond smile on Bert’s face. “Oh, _Ann.”_ He looked at Bert more closely and the barman nodded confirmation. “ _That_ Ann.”

“The very same,” Ann agreed, stepping back.

“Wow,” Aziraphale said, and couldn’t help but look over at Donnie, still half-leaning against Bert in relief. Then he decided he didn’t want to get anywhere near this one, and hastily looked for anything else to distract himself with.

His eyes landed on Otho and Alexander standing not far away, in some sort of animated discussion that involved a lot of complicated hand gestures, and he grabbed Crowley’s arm. “My dear, look, they must have convinced Otho to leave his heaven,” Aziraphale said, and set about steering the two of them away as Bert began to look back and forth between Donnie and Ann.

“I knew something must have happened,” Bert said to Donnie as Aziraphale and Crowley departed. “I knew you couldn’t have wound up in Hell. You’re too good for that.”

Donnie sniffled, carefully pulling away from Bert’s shoulder and wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “At least one of us thinks so,” she said with a nervous laugh.

“I know it,” Bert said, frowning at her worriedly and reaching over to take her hand. Then he cast a glance at Ann, suddenly more torn than ever. Ann seemed to understand his hesitation; she always had been able to read him like an open book.

“You should go back to Earth,” she said. “The two of you.”

Bert hesitated. He loved Donnie, he really did, but he had missed Ann for so long. “I—I couldn’t possibly leave you,” he said, looking at Ann and feeling tears beginning to build in his sinuses. “And Caroline.”

“We’ve waited this long for you, my love,” Ann said, giving him such a kind smile. “We can wait a little longer. And you should be with Donnie—she deserves you too.”

Bert turned back to Donnie, who had averted her gaze, though she was nervously clutching Bert’s hand.

Bert squeezed her hand in reassurance and looked back at Ann. He wanted them both so dearly, but he knew he could only have one. And, for now at least, he and Donnie both belonged on Earth. “Are—are you sure?” he asked Ann.

“Of course,” she said, and opened her arms.

Bert gave Donnie’s hand a parting squeeze and moved towards Ann, pulling his first wife into a tight hug. “I—I’ll come back for you, I swear.”

“I know, my love,” Ann said, running her hands over Bert’s back. “And I will rest easily, knowing you are safe and loved, and not growing old alone.”

Bert felt his tears escape his eyes, rolling down his cheeks as Ann carefully pulled away. She put her hand on his damp cheek, the skin of her palm so smooth against his stubble.

“Go,” she said. “Live your life, and be happy and generous and good, not because of me but because it’s the way you are.”

Bert felt another set of tears roll down his cheeks as he gazed at Ann, wondering how he had ever survived without her.

“Have the most wonderful adventures,” Ann continued, hand still caressing his face. “And then, when you come back, you can tell us all about them. Caroline will love to hear them.”

Bert put his hand over Ann’s, pressing her palm against the side of his face, more tears sliding down his cheeks. “I—I will,” he promised.

“Good,” Ann said, and leaned forward for a kiss. Her lips were soft against Bert’s, tasting of a sweetness he had been deprived of for so long, and which had haunted his dreams for over a decade.

Bert stayed with her for as long as he dared, fearing that if he lingered too long he would lose the strength to leave. Then he pulled away, touched her very carefully on the cheek, gave her one last, long look, and turned away.

Donnie was standing nearby, still working on wiping her own tears from her eyes. Bert felt a pang in his chest for having left her there to cry alone, but at least he wouldn’t have to leave her again for a good while longer.

He crossed to Donnie and pulled her into a hug, trying to convince her through just the strength of his embrace that he cared for her no less for the events of the last few days.

“Happy anniversary, honey,” Bert told her, and planted a kiss on her cheek.

Donnie gave a short laugh and hugged him back.

“I’m so glad you’re not dead,” Bert said, gently rubbing her back. “We can go home together.”

“I—I would like that,” Donnie said, and rested her forehead against Bert’s shoulder as, a dozen metres away, a cluster of angels spotted Crowley standing among them and descended on him like moths to a flame.

“Oh no,” Crowley said, prompting Aziraphale to take an automatic step closer to his partner, prepared to fend off the newcomers if necessary.

“Crowley, sir!” one of the angels called as the group drifted closer. “Do you approve of Golgoth’s new name?”

“Redeemed Crowley, do you recommend angels go to the Abyss to help the Fallen?”

“I—er—” Crowley began, looking a little overwhelmed.

“You are such an inspiration!”

“What was it like to unFall?”

Aziraphale was about to step forward and tell them all to give Crowley a little space—forcefully, if necessary—when he felt a tap on his elbow.

“Aziraphale?”

He glanced over his shoulder to see Ludwig nervously tugging on the sleeve of his cobalt blue riding jacket. “Could I have a word?”

Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, unwilling to leave his partner’s side, but Crowley had noticed Ludwig’s approach as well.

“You can go,” Crowley said in an undertone, the angels still eagerly pitching their questions at him. “I—I’ll be all right.”

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment more, briefly scanned the crowd of admittedly rather harmless-looking angels, looked back at Crowley, and nodded. He turned back to Ludwig and the two of them moved a short distance away, where it was a little quieter.

When they were a dozen paces from the cluster of angels, Ludwig came to a halt and resumed anxiously tugging on the end of one of his jacket sleeves.

“Thank you so much for all of your help,” Aziraphale offered. “You and the others really pulled through for us.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Ludwig said, glancing over Aziraphale’s shoulder at Crowley. “Is he all right? He was…in a bad way, in that room.”

Aziraphale drew a worried breath and followed Ludwig’s gaze. Crowley seemed to be doing all right fending off his admirers so far, raising his hands and telling them to ask questions one at a time.

“He’ll be okay, I think,” Aziraphale said, turning back to Ludwig. “Tell Harry thanks from me too; I haven’t seen him yet.”

“Okay,” Ludwig said, and continued to hover.

“There was something you wanted to talk about?” Aziraphale prompted after a moment.

“Um, yes, actually,” Ludwig said nervously. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale assured him. “You helped save Crowley’s life; anything you need.”

Ludwig nodded, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. “Do you remember…there was a man named Richard…”

“Oh, yeah,” Aziraphale recalled. “A friend of yours, wasn’t he? Or…boyfriend?”

“Something like that,” Ludwig agreed.

“You were looking for him,” Aziraphale remembered. “Trying to find his heaven, right?”

Ludwig nodded, looking pained. “I, um, found it.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Really? That’s great!”

Ludwig’s expression begged to differ.

“Or…isn’t it?” Aziraphale asked.

“I…I found him,” Ludwig said. “But he…he was not as I remembered him. He wasn’t very interested in me.”

“Oh…no,” Aziraphale said, filling his tone with as much sympathy as he could. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Ludwig said, shifting nervously onto his other foot. “But I…I had a lot of lovers when I was alive, and I thought maybe I had something special with Richard, but…”

Aziraphale, who didn’t know what to say, adopted an appropriately contrite expression.

“I just…I want something real,” Ludwig said, staring at his boots. “And I remember—you were looking for Crowley at the same time as I was looking for Richard, but you and he…” Ludwig looked over at Crowley. “You clearly care so much about him, and the way you two look at each other…your relationship is just…so perfect.”

Aziraphale, seeing where this was heading, nervously bit the inside of his cheek.

“And I was wondering, just…how does that happen? What am I doing wrong?”

Aziraphale drew a long breath and put a hand on Ludwig’s shoulder. Though Aziraphale knew Ludwig had lived to be forty, he looked so young now, returned to his physical youth and wearing an expression fraught with despair.

“Oh, Ludwig, you’re not doing anything _wrong,”_ Aziraphale assured him, turning to gaze over at Crowley. “A lot of it’s just luck, honestly, and then, when you find the right person, you just…hold on and don’t let go.”

“But it just…you make it look so easy,” Ludwig said despondently. “Effortless.”

“Oh, no relationship’s _effortless_ ,” Aziraphale told him. “Or perfect. It’s just _worth_ the effort.”

Ludwig gave him a look that said he very much doubted that.

“It’s like this,” Aziraphale said, and then an idea occurred to him. “Actually, just wait here a sec.” He strode quickly towards Crowley, leaving Ludwig behind him.

“—but I plan on supporting Redemption more actively in the future,” Crowley was saying as Aziraphale reached him, the crowd of angels clustered eagerly around him. “I really do think—”

Crowley broke off as he saw Aziraphale approaching, and he gave Aziraphale a bright, easy smile that seemed to indicate that he wasn’t finding answering the angels’ questions too disagreeable.

“Can I borrow you for a moment, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, beginning to draw Crowley away by the arm. There was a chorus of disappointed protests from the assembled angels, but no one moved to follow them.

“I’ll be right back,” Crowley assured them, and Aziraphale led him over to Ludwig. “What’s the matter?”

Ludwig saw Aziraphale bringing Crowley over and blushed bright red. “I—I really—” Ludwig protested, but Aziraphale waved away his words.

“Ludwig here is under the impression that our relationship is utterly perfect and requires no effort whatsoever,” Aziraphale announced, only making Ludwig blush even deeper.

“Well,” Crowley said, “it really is pretty per—”

Aziraphale elbowed him.

“I mean, er, just terrible,” Crowley corrected quickly. “So much work. So much effort. Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Look, Ludwig, no one’s perfect. You just have to either learn to love the flaws or live with them. Take Crowley here for example. He’s _very nearly_ perfect, but he simply cannot be bothered to get the post when he comes home.”

“Oi!” Crowley protested.

“And he drools all over me in his sleep,” Aziraphale continued, warming to his topic. “ _Every_ time.”

“Well, you snore!” Crowley shot back.

“See, I’m not perfect either,” Aziraphale said. “But, unlike Crowley, I check to see if the milk has gone off _before_ cooking with it.”

“Okay, that was _one_ time.”

“One time was all it took.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows in Ludwig’s direction, jerking his head towards Aziraphale. “Well, I can’t let _him_ anywhere near burritos, because what comes out the other end is absolutely _noxious_.”

“My dear!” Aziraphale said, flushing. “Polite company!”

“ _And_ he leaves lights on all over the house,” Crowley complained. “He’s a menace to the planet. Oh! And his hair always clogs up the shower drain, and then he refuses to clean it out.”

“I don’t _refuse_ ,” Aziraphale protested weakly. “It’s just hard to find the time when you take forever in the loo in the morning.”

“I don’t…yeah, okay, actually I do,” Crowley allowed. “I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“But then he’ll sit there engrossed in a book and just… _neglect_ me,” Crowley said, addressing these words to Ludwig as though hoping for a more impartial judge.

“You’re not neglected, my dear,” Aziraphale said.

“How would you know?”

Aziraphale couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter, and he leaned over to give Crowley a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, my dear.”

“Love you too, angel,” Crowley said brightly, and gave him a kiss in return.

Aziraphale glanced over at Ludwig, who was looking suitably taken aback. “I think that’ll do, Crowley. Thank you very much.”

“Anytime,” Crowley said, and gave him another quick kiss on the cheek. He gave Ludwig a friendly nod and headed back over towards the crowd of expectant angels, several of whom had produced pens and sheets of glossy paper.

“See?” Aziraphale said, turning back to Ludwig. “Not perfect, but so worth it.”

Ludwig stared after Crowley, still looking taken aback. Aziraphale followed Ludwig’s gaze, watching as Crowley’s return prompted a small cheer from the assembled angels. One of the angels asked something, voice too quiet for Aziraphale to make out, gesturing to Crowley’s two sets of manifested wings. Crowley responded a moment later, hands moving as he spoke, and then he gestured to Aziraphale, who still had his third pair of wings. He glanced over his shoulder as he did so, and Aziraphale felt a smile break across his face.

“I…I really do love him dearly,” Aziraphale said, his chest warm.

“How did you know he was right for you?” Ludwig asked, and Aziraphale saw that he’d moved to his side, looking over at Crowley too.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale said absently. “I just…knew.” He tried to think it over, hoping to give Ludwig slightly more concrete advice. “I can’t imagine ever being with anyone else. And when we’re apart for more than a few days, I just…I miss him. And I’m so much happier when we’re together.” Aziraphale let out a long breath. “I don’t know. It just…it was just always going to be him.”

He gazed over at Crowley as he started awkwardly signing autographs for members of the crowd, feeling so unfathomably lucky to have such an incredible husband.

Ludwig made a noise of acceptance, and Aziraphale shook himself from his reverie.

“But you need to remember,” Aziraphale said, feeling that he’d finally hit upon a piece of advice he could put some stock in, “Crowley and I have known each other for six thousand years, and we’ve been living together for the last twenty-five. We’re not exactly what you’d call typical.”

Ludwig sighed wistfully. “I suppose not.”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone,” Aziraphale told him confidently, patting Ludwig’s shoulder reassuringly. “Try not to worry about it too much. And you’ve got eternity, so no need to rush.”

Ludwig let out a long breath, looking moderately reassured. “I guess so.”

“…was that useful at all?” Aziraphale asked.

Ludwig shrugged and nodded.

“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” Aziraphale said apologetically, “but I really only have experience with Crowley.”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Ludwig said. Then his gaze shifted slightly, and he smirked. “Looks like someone’s having better luck than me.”

Aziraphale followed his gaze and gave a short laugh when he saw Kazariel, easily identifiable by her long red hair, lip-locked with Gedariah. He looked somewhat baffled, hands hovering awkwardly above Kazariel’s waist as hers eagerly explored his chest, but not unwilling, so Aziraphale supposed he didn’t need rescuing.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “Well, that’s going to be interesting.”

“Looks like,” Ludwig agreed.

There was a ripple of laughter from the direction of Crowley’s crowd of admirers, and Aziraphale glanced back over at his partner. “I suppose I ought to be getting back,” Aziraphale said. “Thanks again for all your help.”

“Anytime,” Ludwig said.

Aziraphale started towards Crowley as, across the field, Michael grimaced and pressed his hand to his abdomen, thinking that he really ought to track down the Antichrist again.

Adam had almost entirely healed him, but as soon as Michael had felt well enough to walk he’d insisted that they find Metatron immediately, and warn the other archangels if they could. Luckily, the flashes of lightning and fire brightening the sky had been easy enough to follow.

He was still looking around for Adam, hoping he could finish healing him, when a human wearing all black except for a clerical collar approached him. “Hello.”

Michael eyed him warily. “And who are you?”

The man seemed to consider for a moment. “A friend of God.”

Michael frowned at his clerical collar. “I see.”

“I just wanted to say that you did well, recognising what Metatron was up to and taking a stand against him. God would be proud.”

“Is that so?” Michael asked, pressing his hand to his stomach again and feeling a little dizzy.

“Yes,” the priest said, and patted Michael on the elbow.

Michael gave him a mildly puzzled, mildly irritated look, but the priest only smiled and wandered off.

 _Humans are so strange,_ Michael thought to himself, and saw Raphael motioning him over to where the archangels were beginning to cluster together again, doubtlessly to decide the fate of Metatron.

Michael strode over to join them, wondering if Raphael knew any spells that would at least dull the pain in his abdomen. But then, even as the thought crossed his mind, he felt the pain begin to recede. As he neared Raphael, his pace slowed, hand still over his stomach but no longer able to feel fresh blood oozing from the wound. In fact, it barely hurt at all. And then, just as he ground to a halt next to Raphael, he caught the faint aftertaste of something raw and powerful. Despite its strength, the sensation was warm and somehow very kind, an impression of divinity that he had honestly thought he’d never feel again, the touch of the Hand that had made him.

Michael froze, trying to grasp onto the sensation even as it slipped from his mind. He spun, eyes quickly searching the thinning crowd behind him.

“Michael, are you all right?” Raphael asked.

“That—that priest,” Michael stammered, searching for the figure that had already vanished. “Did you see him?”

“What priest?”

Father Gilbert dusted off his hands as he ducked out of Michael’s line of sight and approached Adam, who was listening to something Beth was saying, Thomas and Annabelle sitting nearby on the grass and looking bored out of their minds. Adam glanced over as Father Gilbert approached, and he had the good grace to look guilty.

“I see you completely failed to follow my instructions to stay on Earth,” Father Gilbert said sternly as he reached them, looking between the pair of them but addressing his words to Adam. The sentence hadn’t finished leaving his lips when Thomas and Annabelle spotted him and jumped to their feet.

“I—er—I can explain,” Adam said quickly as Thomas and Annabelle ran past him, “but before I do, I _did_ save Michael’s life, and you told me to keep everyone alive.”

“Grandad!” Thomas exclaimed, grabbing onto Father Gilbert’s sleeve. “We found you!”

“Yes, you did,” Father Gilbert said to Thomas, and then diverted his attention back to Adam. “And I _did_ tell you to keep everyone alive.” He stepped forward and pulled his grandson into a hug. “Thank you.”

Adam stiffened in surprise. “You—you’re not going to give me an earful for coming after you?”

“Oh, I’m saving it for later,” Father Gilbert assured him, pulling back and eyeing Beth and their children next, Thomas and Annabelle both seeming utterly thrilled. “But pray tell, before you decided to embark on this foolish and potentially deadly venture with your wife and two small children, did you at least tell someone to keep an eye on the Tree?”

“Oh,” Adam said, face suddenly going blank. He looked at Beth. “I…I actually…”

“Mara’s husband’s looking after it,” Beth supplied. “She says he is most excellent at sitting in one place and doing nothing.”

“Harper?” Father Gilbert realised, putting together Beth’s words. “You left _James Harper_ to guard the Tree of Free Will?”

“This was not my idea,” Adam volunteered.

“Does he understand the sheer _magnitude_ of what is at stake here?” Father Gilbert asked, aghast. “If someone eats from that Tree, the Plan might be torn astray _again!”_

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Adam said, looking very much like he hoped it was.

Father Gilbert gave Adam an unconvinced look

“Did you get the chance to talk to Metatron?” Beth asked, a little too innocently.

Father Gilbert frowned at her.

“Yeah,” Adam said, picking up Beth’s train of thought. “While we’re talking about how well we all stuck to the plan, how did dealing with Metatron go?”

Father Gilbert scowled at them both. “I was on my way to intercept him, but was repeatedly delayed.”

“Delayed,” Adam repeated, exchanging a glance with Beth. “He was _delayed.”_

“Oh, don’t rub it in,” Father Gilbert said grumpily, folding his arms. “There were angels who needed my help.”

“Fair enough,” Adam allowed. “But you _really_ need to apologise to Crowley this time. Aziraphale, too. I was able to heal Crowley, but he looked like he’d been to hell and back, and not just in the physical sense. And now that Aziraphale’s mortal again, that can’t be easy for either of them.”

Father Gilbert blinked at Adam in surprise. “What? Aziraphale’s mortal?”

Adam blinked back at him. “Yeah. Metatron cut down the Tree of Life.”

_“What?”_

“I felt it,” Adam said, voice suddenly a little uncertain. “I wasn’t sure if you had, and that’s why I came to Heaven in the first place. You didn’t feel it?”

“I told you, I can’t see anything,” Father Gilbert said, aghast. “What are we going to do?”

An alarmed expression spread across Adam’s face. “You’re asking _me?_ I don’t know! Can’t you just make another Tree?”

Father Gilbert considered the idea worriedly. It had been millennia since he had made Eden, and creating a new Tree would take time. Immortality via the Tree had been part of Aziraphale’s reward for helping with the original Plan, though, and it only seemed fitting that he continue to receive that reward. And just in case that hadn’t been incentive enough for making things right, the loss of the Tree rendered Crowley—who was also very deserving of his own reward—effectively mortal as well, since he and Aziraphale had bound their souls together.

“I—I may have to,” Father Gilbert said, distraught. Though he had made a rule of respecting the free will of his creations, he had also promised Crowley and Aziraphale that he would look after them, and this was far from it. He glanced around until he spotted Aziraphale, standing next to Crowley as he explained something to a small crowd of very interested-looking angels. They were holding hands.

“I should talk to them,” Father Gilbert fretted.

“I’ll do it,” Adam volunteered. “It’ll be faster, unless you wanted to lead with ‘Hey, by the way, I’m God.’”

Father Gilbert gave Adam an unamused look.

“If nothing else, they should be able to give us a better idea of what on earth is going on,” Adam said, and started towards Aziraphale.

“Did you ever figure out what started the domino effect in the first place?” Beth asked Father Gilbert curiously as Adam left.

Father Gilbert looked back around at her and scratched the back of his neck. “I’m afraid not. Maybe I’ll be able to see it when my omniscience returns, but for now…” He shrugged.

Beth made a noise of understanding. “Do you think it’ll come back?”

“Oh, almost certainly,” Father Gilbert said, though the lack of progress in the last forty-six hours had admittedly not been reassuring. “It’ll just take a little time, is all.”

Beth nodded.

“How’d you all get here anyway?” Father Gilbert asked, looking behind her at the children. “We ought to get everyone back as soon as possible.”

“Adam made a portal,” Beth supplied.

“From within Midfarthing?” Father Gilbert asked, alarm flaring through him.

“Yep.”

Father Gilbert glanced back over towards where Adam was drawing Aziraphale away to speak with him in private, Crowley appearing quite disappointed to be parted from his husband. “I don’t suppose Adam placed a guard on this portal to an otherwise unreachable, magically shielded village?”

“Er…nope,” Beth said.

“Of course not,” Father Gilbert sighed, turning back to Beth and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Where is this portal?”

“Uh…” Beth looked to her left, away from the edge of Heaven. “It’s over there…somewhere…”

Father Gilbert took a deep breath. “This is going to take some time, isn’t it?”


	33. To Each Their Own

_“This_ is your great punishment?” Metatron asked in disbelief as Beelzebub pushed him firmly into the circle. “You _must_ be joking.”

“Then you’ll have plenty of time to appreciate our humour,” Michael said dryly. “Eternity, in fact.”

Metatron scowled at him.

“Please, take a seat,” Lucifer said, flexing his fingers. “Or we shall encourage you to do so ourselves.”

Metatron glowered at them all and then sat down pointedly on the stump of what had once been the Tree of Life, now freshly encircled by a sigil specially designed to be his prison.

“Who would like to do the honours?” Michael asked, looking around at the assembled archangels and seraphim. “Crowley?”

Crowley hesitated for a moment and then nodded. “Sure.” He gave Aziraphale’s hand a parting squeeze and stepped forward, moving around where the crown of the Tree was still lying nearby, its trunk blackened from the Edenic sword’s fire. Michael handed him a long silver staff engraved with glyphs, the tip of which he had used to lay down the lines of the sigil.

“Look, if it isn’t the wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Metatron hissed spitefully as Crowley advanced to the edge of the circle. “Plotting another great Fall, are you?”

Crowley ignored him, instead making his mark at the edge of the sigil with the end of the staff. This time, he spelled the shape of his real name: _Crowley_. His seal glowed briefly and then settled into the edge of the sigil, the faint blue-white threads rearranging themselves to accept it.

“My only regret is that I didn’t get to finish with you,” Metatron hissed at Crowley, trying to make eye contact, “and those stolen wings of yours. But _oh_ , did you _deserve_ it.”

Crowley drew a long breath, feeling it shake in his chest, and then looked up and met Metatron’s gaze squarely. “No,” he said firmly. “No, I didn’t. And you can just bloody well rot here until you figure that out.”

He turned away before Metatron could say anything else, planting the staff by the edge of the circle and striding back to Aziraphale’s side, hoping Metatron wouldn’t notice the way his fear quickened his step.

“God will strike you down,” Metatron snarled as Crowley reached Aziraphale and gratefully took his partner’s offered hand, Aziraphale drawing him in close. “Both of you.”

“Because God is so _clearly_ on your side,” Lucifer drawled, strolling forward to take Crowley’s place by the edge of the circle.

Metatron’s eyes moved to Lucifer, gaze hard. “And you think He is on yours? You will never be Redeemed, you defiler. There is no such thing as Redemption.”

“Please, do keep telling yourself that,” Lucifer said. He took the staff and made his mark as well, imbuing the sigil with the power of two seraphim; already it was amply capable of holding its captive. “Have fun being the only demon left.”

Metatron glared at Lucifer as he strode away, holding out his arm to indicate that Beelzebub should go next.

“Maybe you’ll think before stabbing someone next time,” Beelzebub said as he added his seal.

Metatron narrowed his eyes. “I see you’re still eating whatever scraps Lucifer throws you from his table. You never did grow a spine, did you?”

Beelzebub actually gave a snort of laughter, which seemed to irritate Metatron even more. He didn’t offer any rebuttal, though, just strolled back to Lucifer’s side. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep him around as court jester? He’s hilarious.”

Metatron was seething by the time Michael stepped forward.

“You are misguided,” Michael said. “I am sorry I did not see it earlier. Perhaps things could have ended well for both of us. You weren’t always like this.”

Metatron narrowed his eyes. “No? Are you sure it is I who did the changing? Remember, dear Michael, you too felt my outrage.”

“So I did,” Michael agreed, looking down and adding his own seal, smaller than the seraphim’s. “But then I learned that it was wrong. Perhaps one day you will realise that too.”

“I am not wrong,” Metatron growled. “One day, _you_ will see that.”

Michael sighed, finishing his seal and looking down at it for a long moment. “Good-bye, Metatron.”

Jophiel added his seal next, and then Gabriel, each archangel imbuing the sigil with their power and authority, adding strength to an already impenetrable barrier. Metatron snarled at them all in turn, imploring some to see reason while disparaging others, his tongue the only weapon he had left.

Crowley stayed close by Aziraphale’s side, clutching his partner’s hand and trying to regain some semblance of the feeling of safety he’d had on that idyllic riverbank, when Aziraphale’s arms had been wrapped around him. Unfortunately, even just the sound of Metatron’s voice was enough to tighten his breaths, forcefully reminding him of what had happened in the stone room.

When the last of the archangels had finished, Jerahmiel stepping back from placing his seal, they all just stood there for a moment, looking at Metatron as he sat on the stump of the Tree he had felled, looking livid.

“Take some time; think about what you’ve done,” Michael recommended. “Rest assured you won’t be disturbed by anyone.”

That much at least was true. Heaven was in possession of the swords to the Southern and Western gates, and Lucifer and Beelzebub had insisted Hell be returned the sword key to the Northern Gate. Since Aziraphale had already talked Jophiel into letting him keep the key to the Eastern Gate, that gave all parties currently present a way to get into Eden, lowering the chances of foul play by allowing them all to keep an eye on each other.

“Aren’t you going to take this bloody ring back?” Metatron asked loudly as Lucifer and Beelzebub turned to leave, his fingers still tugging ineffectually at the Seal of Solomon.

“Oh, you can keep it,” Beelzebub said smugly. “It looks good on you.”

Metatron scowled as Beelzebub gave him a little wave and turned away, strolling back towards the Northern Gate with Lucifer.

“I warned you all,” Metatron told the archangels, his vicious gaze sweeping across them. “Do not say that I didn’t. When Heaven Falls, you will know how right I was.”

Azrael raised her eyebrows, Jophiel frowned, and Michael just looked disappointed.

“I think we’re done here,” Michael said, unfurling his wings and looking towards the Southern Gate.

Crowley, unwilling to be the last person there with Metatron, even if he had Aziraphale by his side, hastily tugged on Aziraphale’s hand. They started off as well, turning away and heading quickly towards the Eastern Gate.

“You will all regret this!” Metatron shouted after them. “And you call this punishment? Ha! I am not afraid of myself, you fools! I have God on my side!”

Metatron continued shouting a mix of insults, assertions of his correctness, and dire warnings after them, but none of the three groups faltered as they strode towards the gates of Eden.

And then, one by one, the gates closed, until the only creatures listening to Metatron’s increasingly desperate shouts were the birds.

 

~~***~~

 

Twilight was falling on Midfarthing by the time Aziraphale and Crowley finally returned to Earth, mutually exhausted. Though they had taken a shortcut through Heaven on their way to and from Eden, the flights had still been long and taxing. Aziraphale would have almost rather waited a day or two to deliver Metatron to his new, rather permanent home, but the archangels had been unwilling to leave him with Beelzebub that long, and had insisted the matter be dealt with immediately.

Now, though, Aziraphale was glad they had done it straight away. For one thing, he didn’t have to worry about Metatron trying to make another deal with Beelzebub so he could escape, though he sincerely doubted Beelzebub was witless enough to think such a deal would be a good idea. For another, neither he nor Crowley had any further pressing business in Heaven or Hell, meaning that they could just take a nice long break. Even the villagers had sorted themselves out, somehow finding a way back to Earth while the two of them had been off dealing with Metatron.

“I never thought I’d be so happy to see the petrol station,” Crowley commented as they touched down on the verge of the road leading into the village. The tall trees clustered along the roadside shielded them from view as they tucked away their wings, letting them fade back into the ethereal plane.

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement, and a moment later they started walking down the road together, Adam’s shield shimmering in the air as they passed beneath it.

“I know it’s late,” Crowley said as they walked past the buildings on the main street of the village, their silhouettes standing out starkly against the darkening sky, “but I’m _starving._ Do you want to grab something to eat?”

Aziraphale turned the prospect over in his mind, suddenly feeling a pang of hunger himself. He’d been hoping to just turn in, exhausted to his core, but he also knew that the last thing he’d eaten had been a vending machine sandwich at the hospital in Tabriz, and that had been several long, _long_ hours ago. Crowley likely had it even worse, since Aziraphale doubted he’d had anything to eat at all since he’d been hit by the car.

“Sure,” Aziraphale said. “The pub should be open, don’t you think?”

The pub was in fact open, though Bert was absent. One of his serving staff had taken over the bar, looking a little hassled as he poured a round of beers for a small cluster of men with matching shirts.

Crowley motioned to an out-of-the-way booth, and they sank gratefully onto the vinyl seats. Neither was much interested in alcohol, so they just ordered a quick dinner. They ate mostly in silence, the familiar routine of it all somehow both soothing and incredibly unnerving. Several of the villagers gave them strange looks—it took Aziraphale a moment to realise that this probably had something to do with the fact that, the last they’d heard, Crowley been hit by a car—but their haggard expressions must have been enough to fend off any would-be commenters.

For as hungry as Crowley had claimed to be, he only ate half of his hamburger before abruptly slowing, switching to picking uncertainly at his chips. Aziraphale ate only slightly more of his own sandwich, feeling too stressed and tired to be more than a little hungry. They both got takeaway boxes and then left for the cottage, the quiet, inky darkness of the street oddly calming as they strode home from the pub like they had so very many times before.

Aziraphale was grateful for the darkness when they reached Somerset Lane, the pavement a single featureless expanse of shadow. There was no sign of the blue and white crime scene tape.

They reached the front garden and walked up the drive, Crowley’s hand reassuringly warm in his own. Aziraphale let them into the cottage, the door obligingly unlocking under his hand with a touch of Crowley’s slowly rekindling power.

Their living room looked just as he remembered it, the familiarity reassuring. There were a few faint chalk marks on the floor from where he’d made the sigil that had taken him to Hell, but Bert had done an admirable job of cleaning it up after him, closing the portal before anyone but Aziraphale could pass through.

“Did…what happened to the brandy?” Crowley asked, glancing around the kitchen as Aziraphale stowed their leftovers in the fridge. “I picked it up, was taking it back to the pub…” He sounded honestly puzzled.

It took Aziraphale a moment, staring at the interior of the refrigerator, to realise that he was asking about the brandy that had been meant as their anniversary present for Bert and Donnie. It seemed like such a trivial thing now, part of such a pedestrian observance. But it was an everyday thing, and Aziraphale had loved all the wonderful little everyday things that came with living here with Crowley among the humans.

Then he remembered that he wasn’t just living _among_ them anymore, because he _was_ one of them again, as mortal as they came.

“It was smashed,” Aziraphale told Crowley, voice tight as he continued staring into the fridge. “When the…the car hit you.”

Crowley made a forlorn sound. “Really? Bugger, that was hard to find, too.” He sighed.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say, so he just closed the fridge and followed Crowley as he started up the stairs. Crowley paused at the top and took a moment to examine his plants, which were clustered next to the small window at the end of the hallway. After critically examining their leaves for a moment, he made a _tsk_ ing noise and strode into their bedroom, where he promptly threw himself onto the bed.

“Oh…that’s much better,” Crowley groaned. “I think I could sleep for a week.”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement and cast Crowley a slightly worried glance; he seemed to be acting a little too normally, considering the circumstances, and Aziraphale strongly suspected that it was forced.

“Come over here,” Crowley invited from his spot on the bed, patting the mattress idly.

“Let me change quick,” Aziraphale said, casting Crowley another slightly worried look as he retrieved his pyjamas and started for the loo. “I’ll be right back.”

Crowley made a sound of assent.

Aziraphale changed as quickly as he could and took a moment to stare at his reflection in the mirror. He looked sweaty and exhausted, his face drawn. There was a shadow of stubble on his chin, and he ran his hand along it nervously. He supposed he’d have to start shaving again, now that he was mortal and time was having an effect on him. He was also desperately in need of a shower, but he was just too tired to even consider taking one tonight. He wanted nothing more than to turn in for a good twelve hours, but there was a tight ball of anxiety in the pit of his stomach that he was fairly certain wasn’t his, and which would doubtlessly make sleep impossible for a while longer.

When Aziraphale made his way back to the bedroom, he found that Crowley had changed as well and was already under the covers, fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. He looked up hopefully as Aziraphale pushed the door open, and gave him an unusually timid smile.

Aziraphale closed the door, turned the light off, and crawled in next to Crowley, who immediately shifted closer. Aziraphale rolled onto his side and put his arms around his partner, pulling him close. Crowley snuggled closer, folding one arm against Aziraphale’s chest and putting his other around Aziraphale’s ribs. He nestled his nose in next, pressing his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder and drawing a long, rattling breath. Though it was a comfortable arrangement, Aziraphale could feel the tension in Crowley’s body and the tightness in his fingers, keeping Aziraphale close, and he knew that Crowley’s nonchalance had been faked after all.

“Everything will be okay,” Aziraphale told him softly, gently rubbing Crowley’s back.

Crowley made a noise of agreement and adjusted his head slightly, nose still pressed into the material of Aziraphale’s nightshirt.

Aziraphale just kept him close, pressing the side of his jaw against Crowley’s head, his partner’s hair slightly gritty and just as unwashed as Aziraphale’s. “I love you, my dear.”

“Love you too, Zira,” Crowley mumbled in response, fingers still tight around a handful of fabric from the back of Aziraphale’s nightshirt.

Aziraphale continued stroking Crowley’s back, trying to convey some measure of reassurance to him. Though he could tell they were both exhausted, Aziraphale couldn’t quite drift off, painfully aware of how tightly Crowley was still— _still_ —gripping him, as though he was terrified of what would happen if he let go.

Aziraphale sleepily mumbled something soothing to him, but it was another few long minutes before he felt Crowley’s fingers begin to relax, his partner finally finding some peace. Sometime after that, Aziraphale drifted off as well.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Aziraphale felt his subconscious begin to stir.

_He was in Eden, the sun bright as he gazed up at the Tree of Life, its branches spreading across the sky like the lead lines of a stained glass window. Peaches, pears, and apples clung to each branch in equal measure, but when he reached up for the nearest peach he realised that the branches were all too far above him, out of reach._

_Aziraphale looked around himself for a ladder, and that was when he realised that he wasn’t in Eden after all. He was outside of Eden, the world barren and mountainous, sand and clumps of rock scattered over the rugged landscape. The sun was bright and uncomfortably warm, burning at his chest. He turned his back to it and looked the other way, his shadow stretching long in front of him._

_It occurred to him quite suddenly that he didn’t know where Crowley was, his partner feeling near but nowhere in sight, leaving him with nothing but the rocks and sand for company._

_Aziraphale realised that he was holding the Edenic sword in his hand and looked about for Eden, knowing suddenly that that was where Crowley must be. He started off across the sand, the mountains slowly rolling back until the desert was utterly flat, the world divided into two halves of perfectly white sky and invariably tan ground._

_And then, all at once, Eden was in front of Aziraphale, a lush paradise enclosed by a high silver fence. An elegant barred gate with tall silver finials was facing him, and Aziraphale moved forwards and fitted the key in his hand into the lock. The key, a silver skeleton one, didn’t fit, though, and he rattled the bars in the hopes of catching someone’s attention._

_“Crowley!” he shouted, feeling suddenly that something must be terribly wrong._

_There was no response from the Garden, and then with no warning Aziraphale was back in the desert, certain that the vision of Eden had been nothing but a mirage, likely brought on by the heat of a sun he could no longer feel._

_Aziraphale resumed walking, the desert endless and featureless, and the more he walked the slower he seemed to go. He knew that Eden was ahead of him somewhere, Crowley lying just out of his field of vision. The air was still and windless, but the top layer of desert sand began to rush past Aziraphale’s feet, like rocks bouncing downhill._

_He felt a sudden flash of fear, the desert fading slightly as he realised that Crowley was in trouble._

_‘I’m coming!’ Aziraphale thought, and he broke into a run, wings fanning out behind him. But now he didn’t seem to be making any progress at all, legs moving sluggishly, wings failing to grasp the air. His feet were sinking into the sand, and then he was buried up to his thighs, legs still churning as he sank inexorably slower, sand rushing around his shoulders now, beginning to pour into his mouth—_

_And then, all at once, Aziraphale was floating somewhere dark, gasping in breaths and feeling around wildly for Crowley. A skeletal figure wearing a slinky black dress and a mink scarf and carrying a set of bagpipes appeared from the darkness._

_THE EARTH HAS YOU NOW, Death rumbled, but his voice was the Voice of God, the words seeming to imprint themselves directly onto Aziraphale’s mind. YOU ARE DUST, AND TO DUST YOU SHALL RETURN._

_Crowley’s fear and pain were mounting, so palpable to Aziraphale while Crowley himself was so far away, Aziraphale so powerless to help._

_Aziraphale turned from Death and ploughed through the darkness, pushing through the void towards his beloved, the world around him growing steadily lighter._

_And then, very abruptly, he was standing in an incredibly long, rather narrow white-brick room. It seemed to stretch off into infinity to his left, and when he looked to his right his eyes fell on Crowley. Several silver stakes slick with blood and trailing a few dangling feathers jutted out from the wall, but Crowley wasn’t pinned there. Instead, he was curled into a ball in the corner, knees pulled up to his chest and wings pressed tight to his sides, watching with huge, terrified eyes as Metatron held something small and golden up to the light._

_“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, and starting running towards him. Oddly, his feet seemed to be getting more traction here, and he quickly crossed the distance, nearing Crowley as Metatron pressed his fingers closed, destroying whatever was in his grasp._

_“You didn’t need_ that _promise, did you?” Metatron sneered. “You never did deserve it.”_

_Aziraphale didn’t know what Metatron was going on about, but he pushed roughly past the Fallen seraph as he reached Crowley. Though he didn’t feel his shoulder actually make contact with Metatron, the angel stumbled to one side and fell to the ground all the same._

_“My dear, are you all right?” Aziraphale asked, sinking to his knees in front of Crowley and wanting very much to draw his partner into his embrace._

_Crowley’s gaze turned from Metatron to Aziraphale. He barely seemed to register Aziraphale’s presence, just looking at him with those grief-heavy, shaken golden eyes, and Aziraphale knew the answer to his question._

_Then Crowley’s eyes slid past Aziraphale’s shoulder, and a heartbeat later the tip of a sword emerged from Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale blinked down at it in surprise, not feeling any pain even as he watched blood blossom over the front of his shirt._

_“Fall,” Metatron’s voice hissed from behind him, addressing the words to Crowley. “Go back to the gutter where you belong, Serpent.”_

_A tear slipped down Crowley’s cheek as Metatron stepped past Aziraphale and produced a large, extremely sharp-looking meathook from thin air._

_“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, but Crowley wasn’t looking at him, eyes locked on Metatron as he stopped in front of him. Crowley tried to shrink further down into the corner, but Metatron simply reached forward and dragged one of his wings open._

_“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, louder, but still Crowley just stared at Metatron, eyes blank with fear, barely breathing. Metatron began to press the tip of the meathook into the bend of Crowley’s wing, drawing blood as the metal sank into his flesh. Crowley whimpered and shrank back but made no effort to defend himself, seemingly paralysed with fear._

_“Get the—get the fuck away from him,” Aziraphale snarled, pushing himself to his feet and barely noticing that the sword emerging from his chest had vanished as painlessly as it had appeared. He took a bold step towards Metatron and grabbed at his shoulder roughly, but that too vanished under his hand like mist._

_A bolt of adrenaline surged through Aziraphale, and for a moment the room flickered, weaving in and out of sight as though he had a bad connection to a television programme. The adrenaline rush heightened, dragging him away from the white room and drawing him up—up—_

Aziraphale’s eyes shot open and he sucked in a huge breath, feeling like he was surfacing from beneath a lake. He pushed himself hastily to his elbows, staring around the darkened room as his heart hammered in his chest. Everything looked peaceful, the faintest traces of moonlight filtering through the blinds and casting silver bands across the foot of the bed.

Then Aziraphale heard a very small sound and he looked across the bed. He and Crowley must have rolled away from each other sometime in the night, because Crowley was currently curled up into a ball on the far side of the mattress, blankets drawn around him like a whirlpool.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, voice a little hoarse. He started crawling closer to his partner, the bed dipping under his weight, and felt a burst of fear that wasn’t his own. He suddenly remembered the dream, the second half far more vivid than the first.

“Crowley, wake up,” Aziraphale said, a little louder and firmer, putting his hand on Crowley’s shoulder and shaking him.

Crowley shifted under his hand, reflexively trying to curl up further, and it took another few shakes of Aziraphale’s hand before he came to, eyes flickering open slowly as his breaths picked up.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, his hand still on his partner’s shoulder as Crowley uncurled very slightly, serpentine eyes hazy with fear and confusion. “It’s me, my dear. It’s Aziraphale. You were having a nightmare.”

It seemed to take Crowley another moment to place himself, and then he uncurled further, golden eyes finding Aziraphale and latching on.

“Angel,” he rasped quietly, and grabbed onto the hand Aziraphale had on his shoulder, steadying himself. Crowley drew a deep breath and started shaking, clinging to Aziraphale’s hand more tightly.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale said quickly, squeezing Crowley’s shoulder.

For a few long moments Crowley just clung to his hand, taking short, shallow breaths and making a visible effort to calm down. Then he swallowed heavily and turned his head away, but not before Aziraphale saw a tear run down his cheek, the track it left behind glinting faintly in the filtered moonlight.

“S—sssorry for waking you up,” Crowley said, pulling his hand from Aziraphale’s and rubbing distractedly at the place where his wedding ring should have been. He was still shaking slightly. “You can go back to sleep.”

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley, feeling a pang of worry. “My dear, don’t think I care so little,” he said, and gently wrapped his arms around his partner.

Crowley made a surprised little noise that turned into a grateful sniffle, and he immediately rolled over and buried his face in Aziraphale’s collar.

“Sss—sssorry,” Crowley hissed brokenly, and burst into tears.

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale told him, holding Crowley close as he shook against him, each sob pulling at Aziraphale’s soul. Crowley cried for a good five minutes, running out of tears and just sobbing against Aziraphale’s chest, clinging to him like a lifeline. Aziraphale let him get it out of his system, gently rubbing Crowley’s back and murmuring to him that he was safe and loved.

Eventually, Crowley seemed to run out of the strength to cry and just made little gasping sounds into Aziraphale’s collar, sniffling loudly. Some time after that, Crowley started to pull away. Aziraphale let him, and Crowley rolled over to the far side of the bed and reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand. He moved into a sitting position and started noisily blowing his nose. Aziraphale followed him across the bed and waited for him to finish.

When it looked like Crowley had it under control, his sniffles further apart and much quieter, Aziraphale asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Crowley drew an unsteady breath, shoulders trembling. “Not—not really.”

Aziraphale made a noise of understanding and scooted closer to his partner’s side, putting his arm around Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley leaned against him slightly and closed his eyes.

“What can I do to help?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley was quiet for a long moment. “Just…stay near me.”

Aziraphale nodded, squeezing Crowley’s shoulder slightly. “Okay. I’ll do that.”

Crowley gave a grateful nod and leaned a bit more heavily against Aziraphale, looking exhausted all over again. For a long moment they just sat there, Crowley leaning against Aziraphale, the darkness quiet around them.

“I—I thought he was going to kill me,” Crowley said at last, words faltering. “I thought I was going to die.”

Aziraphale’s throat closed, and he wrapped his other arm around Crowley as well, holding him fast. “I know,” he said quietly, pressing his cheek against Crowley’s hair. “I felt it.”

“Oh, Zira, I—I really—I thought that was the end,” Crowley said, turning and hugging Aziraphale, Aziraphale adjusting the position of his arms to accommodate him better. “It was—it was so much worse than the first time—”

“It’s over now,” Aziraphale told him as soothingly as he could, trying not to remember the echoes of Crowley’s pain and fear that had rolled over him as he’d waited outside Heaven’s gate. It must have been only a shadow of what Crowley had been experiencing, but it had been enough to drive him to his knees. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Why did Metatron have to do all this?” Crowley asked, voice muffled by Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Why couldn’t he just let us be?”

“He certainly didn’t _have_ to do anything,” Aziraphale said, rubbing a hand up and down Crowley’s back, “but I imagine he did it because he’s a xenophobic prick with delusions of Godhood.”

Crowley gave a faint snort of laughter and coughed as it conflicted with his stuffy nose. “Ow.”

“He had an agenda, and you just happened to be part of it,” Aziraphale said reasonably. “There was nothing you could have done differently.”

Crowley nodded and settled his forehead further against Aziraphale’s shoulder. He let out a long breath, seeming to draw strength from Aziraphale’s presence. “I just want everything to go back to the way it was,” he confessed quietly.

“I want that too,” Aziraphale assured him, giving Crowley’s back another slow rub. “And it will. The important thing is that everyone’s okay, and we’re together. I don’t think any of the villagers even had so much as a scratch on them, and Lord knows what they’ve been up to, that they wound up in Heaven.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement, and Aziraphale planted a long kiss in his hair. “I’m just so glad you’re okay, my dear,” Aziraphale told him softly. “I love you so much.”

“Love you too,” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s shoulder, and after a moment he let Aziraphale gently guide him back under the covers.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Aziraphale said again once they had settled down, stroking a lock of hair out of Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley made a noise of agreement and adjusted his position on the mattress, loosely wrapped in Aziraphale’s arms.

Aziraphale found Crowley’s hand and intertwined their fingers, hoping that the contact would ground Crowley enough to keep him from having another nightmare. Though they had both regularly suffered from nightmares of varying severity in the past, they had sharply declined in frequency since the two of them had started sharing a bed. For Aziraphale, he imagined this had something to do with the fact that most of his nightmares involved either being separated from Crowley by some force—either a supernatural one or his own mortality—or involved Crowley suffering in some way, usually while Aziraphale watched helplessly. So as long as Crowley was physically nearby while he slept, even if one of them had rolled away in the night, he found his nightmares lacked traction. The only nightmares of any strength he’d had at all in the last six years had been when he and Crowley were spending the night in different places, and once when Aziraphale had fallen asleep reading while Crowley was out late in the village.

Unfortunately, this new strain of nightmare seemed tougher than the last, but maybe similar tactics could stave them off. Crowley really did need his rest.

“Try to get some sleep,” Aziraphale told him kindly, Crowley’s features just faint outlines in the reflected moonlight filtering through the window. “I’ll look after you, okay?”

“M’kay,” Crowley said, exhaling heavily and closing his eyes, his hand warm against Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale waited until he thought Crowley had drifted off before allowing himself to do the same, his exhausted eyelids sinking closed as the darkness took him.


	34. The Knowledge of Good and Evil

“So this book has the names of all of the dead humans in it?” Cadriya asked as she followed Zephrades down the darkened hallway, torchlight flickering over the rough walls.

“All the dead _damned_ humans,” Zephrades corrected. “I don’t know if your children will be in it, but if they are, then that means they’re here in Hell and we should be able to find them.”

“Like you found me?” Cadriya asked.

“Exactly,” Zephrades said, striding to the door of the records room and pulling it open by the heavy iron ring. “It’s right in here.” He stood aside to let her enter, and that was when he saw the apple in her hand. “Where’d you get _that?”_

It was a strange sight, was all; Hell wasn’t exactly known for its fresh produce.

“Hmm?” Cadriya asked. “Oh, this? It was just sitting by one of those torches in the corridor. I was going to eat it later; is that all right?”

Zephrades blinked at her. “Sure, I guess,” he said, and put it out of his mind as he swept into the records room, lighting all the stubby candles in the room with a wave of his hand. “So, here we are…”

Though the ledgers were organised by the souls’ time of arrival, there were no further markers to indicate any sort of date, and multiple ledgers had been in use at the same time, meaning that souls entering Hell directly after each other might appear in different ledgers. It took them several hours, but in the end they were able to locate Cadriya’s eldest child under the name Paebel ishtu Sodom.

“He is here?” Cadriya asked as she gazed down at her son’s name, eyes welling. “Where? We must go to him!”

“Yes,” Zephrades agreed, hastily scrawling down the associated locational information on a spare scrap of paper. “Let me just look this up quick…”

It took him nearly another half hour to determine the exact location of young Paebel’s hell, and how to get there.

“Okay, I’ve got it; we can go,” Zephrades said at last, blowing on his inked instructions to dry them and offering Cadriya an encouraging smile. “Let’s make this right.”

They were only a few corridors away from the records room, still in a very secluded part of Hell, when Zephrades heard the faint sounds of someone crying.

Zephrades slowed, and as they neared a place where a narrow, craggy corridor intersected with their own, Zephrades glanced down it.

Sitting halfway down the craggy fissure, knees drawn up to his chest, head in his hands, and black wings half-fanned around him, was a demon.

“Hello there!” Zephrades called tentatively.

The muffled noises immediately cut off, and the demon looked up, nose red but eyes perfectly dry. Zephrades noticed that there was a streak of grey in his otherwise dark hair. “Fuck off.”

Zephrades frowned at him. “That’s not very polite. Er…are you all right?”

“That’s none of your damn business,” the demon growled. “Go away.”

Zephrades thought about it, glancing back at Cadriya to see what she thought, but she looked equally uncertain.

“What are you crying about?” he called down the corridor.

“Fuck off, I said.”

“He’s not very friendly, is he?” Zephrades commented, addressing his words mostly to Cadriya. The demon fanned his wings out a little more, spreading them around himself and hiding his face from view.

It was pretty clear that he wanted to be left alone, and Zephrades considered doing just that. But he had spent the last four years following Golgoth everywhere, and Golgoth had never considered anyone beneath or beyond his help.

Zephrades thought for a moment more and then the most fantastic idea came into his head. He quickly turned back to Cadriya, pitching his voice low. “Do you still have that apple?”

Cadriya blinked at him. “What?”

“The apple,” Zephrades said quietly, attempting to mime the fruit with his hand.

Cadriya blinked at him but pulled the apple from her pocket, where she had evidently stuffed it when they’d walked into the records room. Zephrades took it and mouthed a _thank you_ at her.

Zephrades cleared his throat and turned back to the demon, surreptitiously polishing the apple on his sleeve. “Do you know who I am?”

The demon’s wing slunk lower, allowing its owner to eye Zephrades. He didn’t reply.

“I am Zephrades,” Zephrades said. “I know Golgoth quite well.”

The demon blinked at him, looking surprised despite himself. “I—I have heard of you,” he ground out.

“Then I know you will believe me when I say that Golgoth visited Eden recently, and he brought me back _this.”_ Zephrades turned his hand to reveal the apple, making the movement as dramatic as possible.

The demon just stared at it for a moment, and then he seemed to put two and two together. He looked up at Zephrades in shock.

“This,” Zephrades said, gazing at the apple, “is a fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.”

“That’s…that’s…” the demon said, and failed to produce the rest of his sentence.

“Incredible,” Zephrades finished, warming to his story. “One-of-a-kind. Golgoth entrusted it to me to give to whomever I felt was most worthy. For, it is believed that this fruit, and the knowledge of good and evil that it conveys, is the only true aid a demon can have for Redemption.”

The demon’s eyes grew round.

“And I am giving it to you,” Zephrades said, holding the apple out further and taking a step closer.

The demon stared at it, and Zephrades saw the desire in his eyes. He really hoped the demon wouldn’t just grab it and immediately take a bite, because then he would realise that it was actually a perfectly ordinary apple someone had probably miracled up for a snack and then left lying about by accident.

“Why…why would you do that?” the demon asked at last, looking at a bit of a loss.

Zephrades considered the demon. “Because you remind me of myself,” he said honestly. “So ready to give up on Redemption. These white feathers you see…” He motioned behind himself, at his own wings, “took me four years to earn. It’s hard, but it’s not impossible.”

The demon’s gaze moved to Zephrades’s wings, expression conflicted.

“Here,” Zephrades said, moving so that he was less than a metre away and offering the apple again. This time, the demon reached out and took it, the motion hesitant. “I am giving it to you,” Zephrades said, “but I truly do not think you need it.”

The demon’s eyes roved from the apple up to Zephrades, his expression crumbling slightly. “I—I have committed many wrongs. I am not worthy of this gift.”

“Says who?” Zephrades asked sharply. “I did not believe that I could be saved, and then Golgoth showed me that I could, and today I realised he was right. We are going home, brother, all of us, or as many of us as care to. As long as you are truly willing, and are ready to make a change and atone for your sins…we all have Redemption within us. Even you. This apple could show that to you now, but I know you can find it yourself.”

The demon’s nose had grown a little red again, and Zephrades wondered when the last time was anyone had shown him an ounce of kindness. “Do you…do you really think so?”

“Of course,” Zephrades said confidently. “I can help you, if you like. I’m working on Redemption myself, but I fear it may take some time.”

“I…I’m sure you’re quite busy,” the demon said.

“Not at all,” Zephrades said breezily. He held out his hand, as Golgoth had held his out to Zephrades not so very long ago. “Come with me.”

The demon eyed his hand hopefully, and then he cautiously reached out and took it. Zephrades pulled him to his feet.

“Excellent. Tell me, what’s your name?”

The demon shifted a little on his feet. “Barabbas.”

“Barabbas, please meet Cadriya. I’m helping her find her children. One of them, Paebel, is here in Hell, and we’re on our way to find him now. Please, come with us.”

Barabbas’s eyes shone. “I—I—okay.”

“Great,” Zephrades said brightly, rubbing his hands together. “Okay, this way.” He started down the corridor.

“Don’t you want this back?” Barabbas asked, looking down at the apple Zephrades had given him as though it were made of gold.

Zephrades paused, looking back at him. “No, that’s all right. You keep it. I’m sure it’s in safe hands.”

 

~~***~~

 

“There!” Lucifer said proudly, standing back and surveying the three identical thrones sitting side by side on the extended plinth at the end of the hall. He had thought that it would look a bit crowded, but instead the three thrones seemed to fit even better than two had. In comparison, the single throne he had sat upon for millennia seemed small, dwarfed by the size of the room.

“I told you, I was okay with just doing away with the thrones altogether,” Beelzebub said.

“I am too,” Ishtyr agreed from Lucifer’s other side.

“Do not even think such things!” Lucifer chastised, striding towards the trio of thrones and feeling more cheerful than he could remember being in a very long time. “If we are to be the last rulers of this place, then we must look the part!”

“…if you say so,” Beelzebub said, but followed Lucifer nonetheless.

“Besides, it is such a nice room,” Lucifer said as he dropped onto the central throne. “It seems like such a shame to waste it.”

“But there could be a…a table…” Beelzebub suggested, taking a tentative seat on the throne to Lucifer’s right. “A nice, long table, for banquets…”

“Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve eaten anything,” Ishtyr said as he too took his seat, leaning across the arm towards Lucifer but staying a safe distance away. “I barely remember food. There must be some chefs around here.”

“Indeed there are,” Beelzebub responded immediately. “Otherwise, Earth is renowned for its food, and surely Hell can be without us for a few hours?”

Lucifer bit his lip as he sat back in his throne. “Per _haps_. I would rather one of us stay here at all times, though.”

“We could do it in rounds,” Beelzebub suggested. “Several of the demons I sent to try to contact Crowley ended up eating at a place called the Ritz while they were lying in wait for him, and apparently their food is amazing.”

“Oh, yes!” Ishtyr agreed. “I reaped a man named George Criticos some time ago, and he was particularly sad to leave his favourite place in the world.”

“Not that I am not absolutely _thrilled_ with how well you two are getting on,” Lucifer interrupted, looking back and forth between his two dearest friends, “but _why_ are you two getting on so well?”

Beelzebub and Ishtyr exchanged a glance around Lucifer.

“We…had a chat,” Beelzebub said slowly.

“We have come to an understanding,” Ishtyr clarified. “We were simply misconstruing each other’s intentions.”

Lucifer looked back and forth between them suspiciously.

“It is nothing to be concerned about,” Beelzebub assured him. “We’re both with you. If Hell really is going to be closing its gates, you’re going to need all the help you can get. It’s an administrative nightmare already, and it’s only just started.”

“I remember every soul I’ve ever reaped,” Ishtyr added. “Your records are good, but I can fill in the gaps.”

“And I know how Hell is organised and structured inside and out,” Beelzebub continued, not without a hint of pride. “I was the one who ordered it, after all.”

“Well,” Lucifer said with a smile, leaning back and crossing his arms. “I don’t suppose you two will be needing me at all, then?”

“Of course we will,” Ishtyr said. “You are their king.”

“I abdicated, actually,” Lucifer said.

“You are the Eveningstar,” Beelzebub said. “It is dark in the Abyss, and it is much easier to find one’s way with some light.”

“Is that so?” Lucifer asked, the question rhetorical. He had been happy to pass the burden of Hell’s leadership to Golgoth, but perhaps there was still some good he could do, however slight. The revolution ought to be led by others, but only a fool would claim that he no longer held influence. Maybe he could find some way to wield that influence in a subtle yet effective manner.

“It is,” Beelzebub said firmly.

Lucifer nodded, unfolding his arms and tracing his fingertips over the engraved ends of the throne’s obsidian armrests. “Well, then, we had better get started.”

He looked up and gazed down the length of the gleaming black obsidian hall. He wondered what it would look like a hundred, two hundred, a thousand years from now, when it lay as empty as the rest of the Abyss, all of the Fallen finally returned home. It seemed like such an improbable dream, but perhaps those were the only ones worth fighting for. “We have a great deal of work to do.”

 

~~***~~

 

Ludwig found Richard in the stables. As Ludwig’s equerry, Richard had spent a great deal of time there during his life, brushing down the horses and carting wheelbarrow-loads of oats and hay back and forth. It was here that Ludwig had spent many misty mornings and humid afternoons, stealing kisses from his handsome equerry.

He found Richard there now, though the horses were conspicuously absent, their imagined presences vanishing under Ludwig’s influence. This must have alerted Richard to Ludwig’s arrival, but he didn’t look around as Ludwig entered the stables, instead focussing on cleaning out the hay from one of the stalls.

It was a very familiar sight, and one that had once brought Ludwig great happiness, but now it was tinged with sorrow. Everything about Richard, it seemed, had turned bittersweet.

“I was wondering if you’d come back,” Richard said as Ludwig approached, pausing in his task just long enough to glance over at Ludwig. “You made it longer than I thought you would.”

Ludwig ground to a halt a few metres away. “Yeah.”

“Look, I told you before, it was fun at the time but there’s nothing here anymore,” Richard said, giving the hay another stab with the pitchfork. “My mind hasn’t changed.”

“Yeah,” Ludwig said again, trying not to look at the way Richard’s muscles flexed as he adjusted his grip on the pitchfork. “I know.”

“So why are you here?” Richard asked, eyes back on the hay as he shovelled out another clump.

“I…I just…” Ludwig trailed off. He took a deep breath to brace himself. “I wanted to apologise for running off without saying good-bye.”

Richard glanced over at him. “You don’t have to. I understand why you did it.”

“Still,” Ludwig said, looking at his boots, “I could have been a bit more…adult about it.”

Richard snorted. “You? An adult? That’s an oxymoron.”

Ludwig frowned at him, but he knew full well that Richard was right. “I _am_ sorry about earlier. There’d been a version of you in my heaven, but he was a bit different and I expected you to act like him. I should have paid more attention to you as you were, not as I imagined you. I’m sorry.”

Richard finally stopped shovelling the hay, straightening up and half-leaning on the handle of the pitchfork. He regarded Ludwig for a long moment. “That’s actually…very decent of you. Thanks.”

Ludwig gave a modest shrug, fixing his eyes on Richard’s shoulder. “I know it’s best if I go, so you can enjoy your paradise in peace, but I…I was hoping maybe we could part as friends?”

When Richard didn’t respond right away, Ludwig looked up at him nervously and found Richard giving him a pensive, proud, almost surprised look. “Wherever you’ve been, you _have_ grown up,” Richard said. “And by ‘friends,’ you mean…”

“Just friends,” Ludwig said. “That’s all. If you want.”

Richard gave him another pensive look, and then he took a step forward and held out his hand. “Sure. Friends.”

Relieved, Ludwig shook his hand. “Thank you.”

“So what have you been up to?” Richard asked. “Six months is a long time.”

“Oh, just…found some old friends of mine. Or, new friends, maybe. There was…um…a bit of a situation with a renegade angel, but everything got sorted out in the end.”

“Sounds like quite the story,” Richard said, and hesitated. “Did you want to stay for lunch? There’s always food inside.” He motioned in the general direction of the castle.

It was a tempting offer, but Ludwig knew that he needed a little more time still, time to emotionally distance himself from Richard and be able to be a good friend to him without bringing up old wounds. “I’m a bit busy today,” Ludwig said. “Maybe another time? I can come back.”

“Sure,” Richard said, adjusting his grip on the pitchfork. “I would like to hear it, though. You always did have the best stories.”

Ludwig smiled faintly. “I suppose I did.” He looked around the stable, as though realising how long he’d been there. “Well, I really ought to get going. Thanks for seeing me.”

“It was nice talking with you,” Richard agreed. “Thanks for understanding. I’m sorry if I didn’t make my position clear enough.”

“No, it’s…it’s not your fault,” Ludwig said, and opened his mouth to further emphasise this point. Then he took a deep breath and swallowed his words, setting himself on a different path, one that hopefully moved forwards instead of backwards. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you in a while, then?”

“Sure,” Richard agreed. “If you give me some advance warning, I’ll have the kitchens rustle up something special before you turn up and make all of the staff vanish.”

Ludwig gave his friend a wan smile. “I’ll do that.” He had already started towards the entrance to the stables when he paused and looked back, giving Richard a parting wave. “Until next time.”

“Farewell!”

Ludwig took a deep breath as he stepped back into the sunlight and began striding away across the beautifully manicured lawn towards the invisible door he’d entered through. Strangely, he felt a deep sense of relief. He’d had Richard’s awkward rejection hanging over his head for months now, and he was grateful to be free of its burden at last. They now knew where exactly each other stood, and could hopefully move forward as friends. And, in the meantime, Ludwig was free to look elsewhere and try to find someone who could come to care about him as much as he had cared about Richard.

But maybe not quite yet. He needed some time to himself, time to recover and to clear out the space in his heart that Richard had filled for so long, readying it for a new occupant. And then…who knew, maybe he could find some cute, available men among all of these heavens.

And, as Aziraphale had said, he did have eternity.

 

~~***~~

 

“Mr Anthony Crowley?” the policewoman on Crowley’s doorstep asked, giving him a rather surprised-looking once-over.

“Yes…?” Crowley confirmed.

“I’m glad to see you’ve returned,” she said, pulling a small notepad out of a pocket on her jacket and flipping to a page near the end. “Is Mr Ambrose Ziraphale here as well? He was reported as having left the area.”

“He’s here, yeah,” Crowley said, waving over his shoulder vaguely. “In the back garden. I suppose you’re here about…?” His eyes moved unwillingly to the stretch of road behind the policewoman.

“Yes,” she said. “We have a suspect in custody.”

Crowley blinked in surprise, his eyes roving back to the policewoman. “What, really?”

“Yes.” She flipped to another page in her notes. “His name is Oswald Osprey. Do you know him?”

Crowley turned the name over in his mind and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

The policewoman shifted her notepad to one hand and pulled out her mobile with the other. “He used to be the vicar at the parish church,” she supplied. “Before he was apparently rudely replaced by the current Reverend Gilbert.”

“I think he goes by ‘Father,’ actually,” Crowley correctly automatically.

The policewoman tapped the screen of her mobile a few times and handed it to Crowley. “Does he look familiar?”

Crowley looked down at her phone, which was displaying a photograph of a somewhat elderly man, his face beginning to show the marks of advanced age and his hair greying. It was a mug shot, and he looked a bit frightened, watery blue eyes peering out of the photograph at Crowley. Despite his rather harmless-looking appearance, Crowley felt his throat tighten; it was the man who had kidnapped him at the hospital in Tabriz.

“Yeah, that’s him,” he said, handing the mobile back.

“So you saw him?” the policewoman asked. “What exactly happened?” Her pen hovered expectantly over her notepad.

“Er,” Crowley said. “It’s a long story.”

“We need to know what happened, Mr Crowley,” the policewoman said. “Perhaps you should come with me and give a statement at the station.”

“Yeah…sure,” Crowley said. “Er, this Oswald fellow—have you spoken to him?”

“He is in custody,” the policewoman repeated. “Please, I need to get your statement before I can tell you anything more.”

“I’m sure you can tell me anyway,” Crowley said, letting the suggestion sink into the policewoman’s head with just the faintest touch of magic. She blinked.

“We’ve spoken to him, yes.”

“Did he say why he did it?” Crowley asked curiously.

“He did, but he is clearly in need of psychiatric help,” the policewoman said.

“But what he said was…?” Crowley prompted.

“Well,” she said, “he _says_ that an angel told him to do it.”

“An angel,” Crowley repeated, his mind jumping to Metatron. “Did he say anything else about this angel?”

“A little,” the policewoman said. “He said the angel was…bright, made the room tremble, and caused considerable damage to a cafe in Suffolk, though we haven’t been able to verify that. And apparently he claimed to be the voice of God.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, relieved to have positive confirmation that Metatron had in fact been behind his kidnapping. “So how’d you catch him?”

The policewoman frowned. “That’s another odd thing, actually. He had your mobile. He must have turned it off earlier, because we weren’t able to locate it. But then, we picked up a tracking signal when he returned to the U.K.”

“From Iran?” Crowley guessed.

“Yes,” the policewoman said, sounding puzzled. “We don’t know how he was able to clear passport control in the first place. All of his paperwork had been forged. But then, when we arrived to arrest him, he was just waiting for us at his registered address. He came quietly; it actually sounded like he was _relieved_ to be caught. He gave us a full confession.”

“Hm,” Crowley said, thinking over the elderly face and its frightened eyes again. He remembered how the man had leaned over his hospital bed in Tabriz and apologised wretchedly even as the drug sank into Crowley’s system. He recalled what the policewoman had said about him being a priest, and realised that Metatron must have picked him specifically because he would be likely to follow the orders of a self-professed angel.

“That’s why I need your statement,” the policewoman continued. “So we can confirm that his confession is genuine.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Never mind about that. Can I have my mobile back?”

The policewoman frowned at him. “It’s evidence, sir.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Crowley told her, letting a hint of his magic fill his voice again. “I don’t want to press charges. Just close the case and let this poor Oswald fellow go. And get me back my mobile, please.”

The policewoman gazed at him, clearly torn between Crowley’s suggestion and her own training. “But—but he is surely part of something bigger,” she tried. “Perhaps arms smuggling; certainly something illegal connected to his forged Iranian visa.”

“There’s nothing there,” Crowley assured her. “And, as you can see, I’m not injured, so no harm, no foul. I’m sure he’s learned his lesson. Just close the case. You don’t need to bother us again.”

“But I…I should get Mr Ziraphale’s statement too,” the policewoman said, almost wistfully.

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley said again, and waited for the suggestion to fully sink in. Finally, she nodded, flipped her notepad shut, and slipped it back into her pocket. She tipped her hat to Crowley.

“Good day to you, sir.”

“You too,” Crowley said, and waited until she had reached her car before closing the door.


	35. The Understanding

“Are you sure you don’t want to do the Ritz?” Crowley asked as Aziraphale rummaged through their fridge, pulling out everything of a dubious age. “We haven’t been to St James’s in a while.”

“We were just there not that long ago,” Aziraphale reminded him, pulling a container of leftovers out from the rear of one of the shelves and squinting suspiciously at its contents through the transparent sides. “Two weeks ago or so?”

“So we’re due back,” Crowley said, almost anxiously. “Or how about a nice drive? Maybe to Bristol and back? Or Cardiff?”

Aziraphale frowned at the unidentified leftovers and moved to set the container behind himself on the counter. Crowley had been acting like this for the last few days, ever since he had broken down on their first night back at cottage. He threw himself into every activity he could find, be it struggling with crosswords or pruning his plants. At first, Aziraphale had thought he was just trying to take his mind off of what had happened, which was an understandable enough impulse, but it didn’t appear to be having any positive effects.

On the contrary, though Crowley had been putting on a truly admirable show of acting normally, Aziraphale could feel the emotional aftermath of what had happened eating Crowley up inside, a similar ball of anxiety gnawing away at Aziraphale as well. The distressing part was that Crowley didn’t seem to want to open up to Aziraphale about it. Instead, he shut down whenever Aziraphale subtly mentioned the events of the last week, accepting his extra hugs and kisses but rebuffing any attempt to get him to talk about it.

The closest he got was at night, when Crowley curled up against him in an attempt to fend off the nightmares. Aziraphale hadn’t found himself in Crowley’s dreams again, and hoped that that meant they weren’t as bad as that first one had been, but he still found himself waking repeatedly in the middle of the night to find Crowley already awake and pretending not to be. Aziraphale really had no idea how much sleep, if any, his partner was getting, but Crowley certainly seemed to act like nothing was the matter. Yet here again the soul bond gave him away, Crowley’s fatigue bleeding across the connection to Aziraphale just in case he’d somehow missed the ever-present exhaustion in his partner’s eyes.

“Or we could go to the bookshop,” Crowley suggested. “I could help you sort through those history books you were talking about.”

Aziraphale straightened up, momentarily abandoning the fridge and frowning worriedly at Crowley. He’d been letting Crowley’s behaviour slide so far, giving him the space he seemed to want, but it was becoming clear that, if anything, it was making him even more anxious.

“Or—or maybe I’ll go take care of all of those brambles around the beech trees in the back garden,” Crowley said, rubbing, apparently unconsciously, at the spot on his left hand where his ring used to be. “I keep putting it off. Maybe you could come read in the back garden and keep me company?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said carefully, closing the fridge door.

“You don’t have to,” Crowley said quickly. “I just…if you wanted.”

“My dear, you don’t have to do all this,” Aziraphale said, and went and pulled Crowley into a hug.

“Do—do what?” Crowley asked anxiously, cautiously hugging Aziraphale back. “We can do something else. Anything else. Whatever you want.”

“You know what I mean,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley a gentle squeeze, his partner seeming so fragile in his arms.

“I—I don’t—” Crowley said haltingly.

Aziraphale pulled back just far enough to move one hand to Crowley’s cheek, cradling his face. “You don’t have to act like everything’s okay.”

As he had feared, shutters swept across Crowley’s serpentine eyes and his partner quickly looked away. “I don’t know what you mean. Everything _is_ okay.”

Aziraphale sighed but let Crowley go when he pulled away. “I know it’s not. Please, talk to me about it.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley said, moving purposefully towards the living room.

Unconvinced, Aziraphale followed him doggedly. “You’re barely sleeping, Crowley. Our souls are bound together, remember; I _know_ you’re not doing well.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley said again, reaching the kitchen table and beginning to flip through the post sitting there with what was almost certainly exaggerated interest. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I can’t _not_ worry about you,” Aziraphale said, moving as close as he dared, afraid Crowley would try to evade him further. “I love you.”

“I—I know,” Crowley said, eyes downcast.

“Then you know I’m here for you,” Aziraphale said. “Anything you need.”

“I just—I just want everything to go back to normal,” Crowley said, and then there was a flash of anger in his voice. “Why can’t you let it?”

“Normal?” Aziraphale echoed. “My dear, this isn’t normal.”

Crowley turned away, casting the post back down onto the table.

“You’re in pain,” Aziraphale said, taking a step closer. “Please, let me help you.”

“You can’t help me.”

Aziraphale stopped dead in his tracks, feeling like he’d been slapped. A heartbeat later, Crowley seemed to realise what he’d said, and he shot Aziraphale a mortified look.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” Crowley said, quickly diverting his gaze to the floor. “I just…” He raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be okay. Please, just—just let me handle this.”

“Can I…handle it with you?” Aziraphale asked, taking a tentative step closer. “You’re just—just shutting me out. Please, don’t do this to yourself.”

Crowley kept his gaze on the floor. “You don’t want to know,” he said heavily. “What Metatron did…” He squeezed his eyes shut, frame taut, looking like he was weathering a storm. “It…even the memory of it hurts. I don’t…don’t want it to hurt you too.”

Aziraphale’s heart ached. “My _dear_ ,” he said, hoping to fit the whole scope of his emotions into those two small words. He took another short step closer, longing to just pull Crowley close and keep him there until all of this was long forgotten.

“And you—you said you wanted everything to go back to normal too,” Crowley continued haltingly, pressing his fingers over his closed eyes and looking like he was barely holding back tears. “I’m trying, I ssswear, it’sss just…it’s so _hard_.”

Aziraphale gave up and crossed the distance between them, pulling Crowley into a gentle embrace. Crowley made a small noise and opened his eyes, his hand falling to Aziraphale’s arm.

“I didn’t mean like this,” Aziraphale told him, caressing Crowley’s cheek with one hand and wishing that he could wipe all the traces of worry and stress from his partner’s face. “I just meant that we got to go home. You and me, here in this cottage; this is home. You’ve already given me everything I could ask for.”

Crowley made a choked little noise, and when he met Aziraphale’s gaze his eyes were watering. He sniffled and looked down, tears escaping onto his cheeks. “I just want to be happy again,” he confessed in a quiet voice. “We were so happy, before.”

“We were,” Aziraphale agreed softly, brushing away Crowley’s tears with his thumb. “And we will be again. But even right now…I’m with _you_ , my dear. That makes me happy.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, lips pressing against each other as he tried to suppress more tears.

“I’d be a lot happier if you were happy too,” Aziraphale continued, gently stroking Crowley’s cheek with the side of his thumb, “but we can work on that.”

Crowley’s mouth twisted into a tight smile, and he put his hand over Aziraphale’s, pressing it to his cheek. “Oh, angel, I think Metatron was right.”

Aziraphale felt a faint flare of alarm pass through him, Crowley’s cheek warm under his palm. “Wh—what do you mean?”

Crowley opened his eyes and looked up at him tearfully, a strained smile pushing against his slick cheeks. “I never did anything to deserve you.”

Aziraphale blinked at him in surprise. He opened his mouth to tell Crowley that _deserving_ had nothing to do with it, and that really the whole concept was rather useless, but was stopped when Crowley leaned forward and kissed him.

Crowley tasted a bit salty from crying, but it was such a welcome gesture, especially since he’d been evading Aziraphale recently.

When they parted some time later, Crowley tilted his head down onto Aziraphale’s shoulder and took a deep, rattling breath. “I’m so sorry about everything. I love you so much.”

“Oh, my dear, you don’t have anything to apologise for,” Aziraphale told him soothingly, giving Crowley’s shoulder a reassuring rub.

Crowley took another deep breath and pulled back a little, sniffling and pawing at his eyes. “No, I do. I…I should have been stronger, like you. I don’t know why this is affecting me so much.”

“Definitely don’t apologise for that,” Aziraphale said quickly. “What Metatron did…no one would expect you to bounce back right away, least of all me. Hell, I _expected_ you to need some time. It’s not a matter of being strong.”

This seemed to reassure Crowley somewhat, and he nodded gratefully.

“Really, please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, even if it’s small,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his hands up and down both of Crowley’s upper arms. “I married you, remember? We’re in this together.”

“…I know,” Crowley said, sounding a little distraught. “I just…you seemed to be doing okay. I didn’t want to give you my problems too.”

“They’re already my problems,” Aziraphale said. “ _Our_ problems. And we’ll _both_ be doing better once you’re okay.”

Crowley nodded.

“Here, it’ll be better if you get it out in the open,” Aziraphale said, an idea occurring to him. He drew Crowley over to the sofa, and once they’d both sunk onto the cushions he turned towards Crowley and took his partner’s hand in his own. “Just tell me whatever’s on your mind. Maybe we can find a better way to work through it, together.”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably, looking both nervous and very grateful. He nodded.

“Okay,” Aziraphale said, rubbing the back of Crowley’s hand gently. “Talk to me.”

 

~~***~~

 

The effects of a butterfly flapping its wings, or of a cafe running out of raspberry jam, it turned out, could be nigh on catastrophic.

Father Gilbert’s omniscience had been returning, first in little flickers and then larger chunks, the dark curtains in his mind being gradually pulled back. Enough of his omniscience had returned for him to begin to grasp what had happened to set the Plan astray, seeing how the tiniest of threads had caused the universe to weave itself into a very different tapestry than the one he had originally envisioned.

He was also beginning to see what had occurred elsewhere while he had searched Heaven for Metatron, seen the decisions made by Golgoth, Zephrades, Michael, Lucifer, Beelzebub, Ishtyr…that last one was especially unexpected. He had never thought Ishtyr would be able to return to Earth, but he was pleasantly surprised to be proven wrong. Even Beth, Mara, Donnie, Ann, and Ludwig had played an important role in convincing Michael to betray Metatron, and Adam had stepped in just in time to save his life.

In fact, much to Father Gilbert’s surprise, this new future was in many ways _superior_ to the previous one. Lucifer and Crowley, he saw, would both take a more active role in encouraging Redemption. With Michael and Jophiel now wholly on board as well, the last traces of dissidence in Heaven would evaporate even more quickly. News of the duel between the new order—represented by Crowley, thought by some to have been Redeemed by God Himself—and the old order—epitomised by Metatron, the Voice of a God long past—was already spreading quickly. Redemption, it seemed, had been _accelerated_.

But perhaps most remarkable of all was the fact that it appeared that there had been no casualties. This was a great relief to Father Gilbert, whose curiosity had arguably started this whole trouble to begin with.

Almost two weeks after Father Gilbert ushered all the Midfarthing villagers who had found their way to Heaven back through Adam’s portal, he phoned Adam and told him that they had to talk about the Tree.

Adam arrived a few days later, Beth accompanying him while the kids remained under the watchful eye of Beth’s mother.

“Thanks for coming,” Father Gilbert said as they strode up the hill towards him, their car parked in the same place it had been last time, Father Gilbert standing in the shade of the Tree.

“Well, let’s get this sorted once and for all, then,” Adam said as they neared, rubbing his hands together and eyeing the Tree nervously. There were a dozen ripe pears hanging from its boughs now, and more on the way. “You said you’re beginning to get your omniscience back?”

“Mostly,” Father Gilbert agreed. “Give it another week or so and I’ll be right as rain.”

“Great,” Adam said, coming to a stop beneath the Tree and looking up at the pears. “What’s the state of the Plan?”

“Surprisingly good,” Father Gilbert admitted. “And I do partially have you two to thank for that.”

“We were just doing what we had to,” Beth said. “What’s the plan for the Tree?”

“I mean…you’re going to chop it down, right?” Adam asked, eyes on Father Gilbert. “You have to.”

“That’s why I phoned you,” Father Gilbert admitted. “It does seem to be the most responsible thing to do.”

“Yes,” Adam said firmly. “It is. Did you bring an axe?”

 _“But,”_ Father Gilbert continued, “I am not convinced it is the _right_ thing to do.”

Adam stared at him. “You’re kidding. This—this _Tree_ is the reason all of this happened in the first place! Michael nearly died, Crowley did too for that matter, Metatron Fell—because of _this Tree.”_

“Yes,” Father Gilbert allowed. “But it is the Tree of _Free Will.”_

Adam stared at him. “So? It puts the entire future in jeopardy.”

“Oh,” Beth said. “You mean, if you cut it down, you’re being hypocritical?”

Father Gilbert nodded at her. “Yes.”

Adam looked back and forth between them. “Sorry?”

“The Tree gives free will,” Beth explained. “If he cuts it down, he’s removing the ability of someone to freely choose whether or not to eat from it and therefore _have_ true free will.”

“You know my thoughts on this,” Father Gilbert continued, looking at Adam, “and can I say I believe in free will if I cut down the one Tree that gives freedom from _my own_ sight?”

“But…but there’s a bigger picture here,” Adam balked.

“I would have thought you would have been all for keeping it,” Father Gilbert said to Adam. “You always did champion free will. What was it you said? You didn’t like anyone ‘messing around’ with people.”

“Well, yeah,” Adam said defensively. “But that was when the angels and demons were mucking around. People already have free will; they don’t need this Tree to help them with that. If the Tree keeps on existing, all it does is make it impossible for us to keep an eye on the future.”

“But then they don’t really have free will, do they?” Beth asked.

“Precisely,” Father Gilbert said.

Adam glanced back and forth between them, looking as though he were watching two madmen agree to drive a bus off the road. “So what if they don’t? That’s how it’s been up until this point anyway. I mean, the way it is is close enough to true free will, surely? And, frankly, I’m okay with a little bit of oversight if it means there’s a future _at all_. I have children to think of. And I know _you’ll_ only interfere for the better. It’s not like we’re putting our fates in the hands of someone untrustworthy.”

Father Gilbert inclined his head.

“Well, if we wanted to play it safe, are there any downsides to cutting down the Tree?” Beth asked. “I know Metatron cut down the Tree of Life. Are there any, like, repercussions?”

“Not that I know of,” Father Gilbert said. “Hardly anyone even knows it’s here.”

“Then we should just be rid of it now,” Adam said persuasively. “It’s not like it’s helping anyone. It’s just going to cause more problems down the road.”

“Is it?” Father Gilbert asked.

Adam looked like he thought that was a tremendously stupid question. “Of course!”

“And why is that?”

Adam frowned at him. “Because someone’s going to wander over here, eat one, and set off some chain reaction that results in another fiasco, that’s why!”

“A fiasco I can’t foresee, you mean.”

“Precisely!”

“I did not foresee this one,” Father Gilbert said sensibly, “and yet everything turned out perfectly all right.”

Adam gaped at him, casting an incredulous look at Beth. “By sheer luck!”

“Or,” Father Gilbert asked, “was it by free will?”

Adam stared at him. “What?”

“For all my omniscience,” Father Gilbert said, “for all my powers and knowledge, I made very little difference in these events. I may have accidentally created this disaster, but I didn’t fix it. You did. You, and Beth, and Aziraphale and Crowley, and Michael and Lucifer and all the others. Angels and demons and humans with absolutely no concept of what the next minute may hold… _they_ brought us here, not me.”

Adam was beginning to look very guarded. “You can’t seriously expect a similar outcome for all future events, though. Maybe it was a fluke!”

“Or maybe it wasn’t,” Father Gilbert countered. “Maybe that’s what would have always happened had I loosed the reins, and I was just too afraid to give it a chance. My creations have always put a great deal of faith in me; perhaps it is time I put some in them.”

“But—but—” Adam protested, looking slightly horrified.

“It’s only a Tree,” Beth said sensibly, glancing at Adam. “It’s not like more than maybe three people would eat from it a year. It’s in a church cemetery.”

“There is also that,” Father Gilbert said, inclining his head towards Beth. “It is unlikely that someone like Metatron who was actively seeking to leave my gaze would realise what this Tree does, or that it even exists at all.”

“And Midfarthing is warded,” Beth pointed out. “So virtually the only people who could eat from it would be humans.”

“Yes,” Father Gilbert agreed. “With a limited lifespan, the odds of them inadvertently wreaking a great deal of chaos on the timeline is low.”

“Aziraphale and Crowley know about it,” Adam pointed out. “Are you willing to let one of them eat from it? After you promised to keep an eye on them?”

“There is that,” Father Gilbert admitted. “I think I may need to speak with them about it.”

“And what if some kid comes running through here,” Adam said, gesturing to the tombstones, “and, on a whim, feeling a little peckish, eats a pear? They’re hardly exercising conscious free will. It’s just bad luck at that point.”

“Yes,” Father Gilbert agreed again. “It only seems fair to give everyone a warning, as I did with Adam and Eve. I believe a human may be permanently removed from my sight if they were to eat from this Tree.”

“See?” Adam said, sounding a little triumphant. “It’s not fair to _them_ if they don’t know what they’re agreeing to!”

“So you make sign,” Beth said sensibly. “Maybe a fence. ‘Don’t eat the pears.’ There. If someone’s willing to climb a fence and disobey a sign, then they’ve clearly committed to the decision. That way, there’s a conscious decision that has to be made.”

Father Gilbert turned the idea over in his head, and found it to his liking. “That could work.”

“This…this is madness,” Adam said, aghast. “You would really give up the potential security of the entire universe’s future so some teenagers daring each other to climb a fence in a creepy cemetery can exercise true free will?”

“Come now, Adam, how do you think this universe came to be at all? Two teenagers playing around with magic ended up inventing mortality. Terrible, yes, but look what came of it. I could never have imagined what this world would become, and how worth it all it would be. Sometimes you just have to let people make choices, even if they—or we—can’t predict the consequences.”

Adam seemed to turn that over in his mind, and then he smiled sheepishly. “You mean an apple’s always worth the trouble you get for eating it?”

“Precisely,” Father Gilbert said, a twinkle in his eye. When there were no further objections from Adam, he glanced at Beth. “So, are we in agreement?”

Beth shrugged. “Sure.”

Adam scrunched his face up and then sighed. “Fine. But do at least put up a sign. And don’t blame me when it all goes wrong.”

“Excellent,” Father Gilbert said, rubbing his hands together. He turned back to Beth. “Now, what exactly do you think we should put on the sign? I don’t want to be misleading.”

 

~~***~~

 

“God of all grace and goodness,” Father Gilbert said, reading from the prayer book in his hands, “accept our thanks for the ordinance of marriage which you have instituted. Bless these, your servants, who are now about to renew their marriage vows.”

He paused and looked up at where Crowley and Aziraphale, the only other people in the small church, were standing before the altar, right where they’d been married, already holding hands and facing each other.

“Guide them and sanctify them by your Spirit,” Father Gilbert continued reading, his voice clear in the mostly-empty church. “Help them look to you today to renew their sacred vows. Amen.”

Father Gilbert looked up from the prayer book and addressed his next words to Aziraphale.

“Will you, Aziraphale, recommit yourself to this holy relationship of marriage and to the solemn obligations and responsibilities of a husband? Will you continue to live with Crowley according to God’s word? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him so long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” Aziraphale confirmed, with just as much conviction as when he had first made the promise.

Father Gilbert repeated the question for Crowley, who similarly agreed.

The two of them repeated their vows next, taking each other’s hands in turn and reaffirming their commitment to each other. Crowley’s voice did a much better job of not shaking this time, but they were both a little misty-eyed by the time Father Gilbert retrieved the couple’s rings.

They were a new set, virtually identical to the old ones, but Aziraphale had insisted he get a new ring as well, so that Crowley’s new one wouldn’t feel so much like a replacement for the one Metatron had destroyed.

Father Gilbert held the rings in one hand and blessed them with the other, as he had their predecessors. This time, he let a touch of his divinity fill his words, safeguarding the rings against physical or ethereal damage. “God of steadfast love, by your blessing let these rings be to Aziraphale and Crowley a symbol of unending love and faithfulness, to remind them of the vow and covenant which they have reaffirmed this day. Amen.”

Father Gilbert held Crowley’s ring out to Aziraphale, who picked it up and slid it onto Crowley’s finger. This turned out to be the point of no return for Crowley, whose nose had been growing progressively redder.

“I give you this ring as a symbol of our marriage. All that I am I give to you. May God—please, my dear, don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, sniffling loudly and pawing at his slick cheeks with the back of his free hand. His eyes moved to Father Gilbert, his expression very apologetic and embarrassed. “One of these times, I’m going to get through this without crying, I swear.”

Father Gilbert made an amused noise, just barely resisting the temptation to peek into the future and check.

“Okay, I’m good,” Crowley said after a moment, sniffling again and returning his free hand to his side, blinking furiously as he turned back to Aziraphale. “Keep going.”

“All that I am I give to you,” Aziraphale repeated. “May God enable us to grow in love together.”

When Aziraphale released his hand, Crowley looked down at his new ring for a moment, a smile pushing against his tear-streaked cheeks. Then he looked back up, sniffled loudly, and carefully took Aziraphale’s hand. Father Gilbert handed him Aziraphale’s ring.

“I give you this ring as a symbol of our marriage,” Crowley said, voice slightly stuffy but the conviction in his tone unmistakable. “All that I am I give to you. May God enable us to grow in love together.”

Aziraphale smiled at him and the couple joined hands.

Father Gilbert put his left hand over theirs and raised his right. “In the presence of God, Aziraphale and Crowley have reaffirmed their sacred wedding vows and renewed their commitment with the giving and receiving of rings. I now declare your original wedding vows to be renewed. May this fresh, new start reaffirm your love, commitment, and devotion to each other.”

Father Gilbert took his hand off of theirs. “You may kiss.”

They did so, looking very comfortable in each other’s arms. When they parted, Father Gilbert raised his right hand and placed upon them a parting blessing.

“May God the Holy Trinity make you strong in faith and love, defend you on every side, guide you in truth and peace, and mercifully grant you the riches of His grace, so that, in living together in faith and love, you may receive the blessings of eternal life. May the blessing of God almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be upon you and remain with you always. Amen.”

He lowered his hand and there was a short moment of silence, Crowley and Aziraphale just smiling at each other.

“There, is that better, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, switching so he was just holding Crowley’s left hand, the one once again bearing a ring. Crowley nodded, looking down at his new ring with a relieved smile.

Aziraphale turned his attention to Father Gilbert, who was giving the pair of them a fond smile of his own. “Thank you, Father.”

“Yeah,” Crowley quickly agreed. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Father Gilbert assured them, and then hesitated, his fingers uncertainly gripping the edge of the prayer book. Now that Bert had discovered his secret, he supposed it was only a matter of time before it got back to Aziraphale and Crowley, and it would be best if they heard it from him first. Besides, they deserved to know the truth, and had for a while now.

“Actually,” Father Gilbert said nervously, “I know you two have had a bit of a rough time of it lately, and I…well, I wanted to apologise.”

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale asked, looking a bit puzzled as he distractedly patted Crowley’s hand.

“Well, you…none of this was supposed to happen, you see, and, to some extent, it’s my fault.”

For a heartbeat they both just stared at him, and then Crowley’s expression cleared.

“Oh!” he said. “Oswald, you mean? I guess he was bitter that you replaced him, but I don’t think you’re really at fault there.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed quickly, looking relieved Crowley had hit upon an answer. “Crowley’s…car accident was unfortunate, but it’s not your fault.”

Father Gilbert bit the side of his tongue and ploughed on anyway. “Well, I also have to thank you both. I apologise for the secrecy, but it has been an honour living with you in Midfarthing. You have both done so much good for Earth, Heaven, _and_ Hell, above and beyond what I could ever ask. As your Father, I really could not be prouder.”

He looked expectantly between them, waiting for one of them to work it out.

After a very long moment, Crowley leaned over and whispered something in Aziraphale’s ear. Unwillingly, Father Gilbert heard “I _did_ see him in Heaven!”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, expression clearing. “Oh, I see. You…er…three weeks ago, right after Crowley’s accident, you, er, spent a couple of days with Bert, Donnie, and Mara, didn’t you? In, er…” He glanced at Crowley. “Well, um…”

“You should talk to Bert about it,” Crowley jumped in. “He can explain. All that was just…um…” He trailed off.

Father Gilbert stared at them both. This was more than free will; this was wilful ignorance.

“Never mind,” he said, giving up. “Anyway, I was more than happy to officiate the ceremony.”

“Yes!” Crowley said, looking relieved at the change in topic. “Thanks again, really.”

They all started drifting towards the exit, Father Gilbert intending to lock up after them. They paused on the grass as Father Gilbert secured the door to the church, and when he turned around he saw the two of them looking across the cemetery, towards Aziraphale’s grave and the Tree growing over it.

“Oh, yes, about that,” Father Gilbert said. “I was planning on having a small fence put up around the Tree. You did say it was a particularly rare breed, did you not? It might encourage people to give it some space.”

Crowley exchanged a meaningful glance with Aziraphale and then glanced over at Father Gilbert. “That seems prudent.”

“Excellent,” Father Gilbert said.

“And, er,” Aziraphale added, “this particular rare breed has been known to sometimes bear poisonous fruit, so…really, don’t let anyone eat from it if you can help it.”

“Yeah!” Crowley hurriedly agreed. “For everyone’s safety, really, just…try to leave it alone. Sorry, I should have mentioned that earlier.”

“It’s just started bearing fruit,” Father Gilbert said. “I’ll do my best to keep people away.”

“Oh, good,” Crowley said.

There was another short pause in which Aziraphale found Crowley’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Well, we’d better get going,” Aziraphale said, taking a step down the hill and beginning to draw Crowley after him.

“Wait,” Father Gilbert said, taking a step after them. “Please, could I…?” He motioned to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley and shrugged, letting go of Crowley’s hand as Father Gilbert took a step closer and gave a hug to the first person who had ever given one to him.

“Do not worry over worldly things,” Father Gilbert told Aziraphale quietly. “Trees grow quickly.”

When he pulled away, Aziraphale was giving him a truly puzzled expression. Father Gilbert quickly moved to Crowley and gave him a hug as well. He seemed surprised by the gesture, as though he had thought Father Gilbert’s gratitude was for Aziraphale alone.

“You deserve everything you have, and so much more,” Father Gilbert told his brave seraph. “You have earned more than I could ever give you.”

Crowley gave him a similarly puzzled look as he pulled away, but his attention was diverted when Aziraphale found his hand again.

“Thank you both,” Father Gilbert told them, taking a step back and looking at the pair proudly. “I’ll be here, if you ever need anything.”

“…sure,” Aziraphale said, and started leading Crowley away. They both looked back at Father Gilbert as they walked away, heading towards the village. Later that night, Father Gilbert knew, something would occur to Aziraphale as he drifted off, Crowley already peacefully asleep in his arms, but the idea would seem so utterly preposterous to him that he would dismiss it in the morning as the beginnings of a particularly bizarre dream.

Father Gilbert gave them a wan smile as they vanished out of sight, thinking that it was, all things considered, not a bad ending at all.


	36. Pride & Prejudice

“Harahel!” Aziraphale shouted in greeting as the librarian approached, looking around at his surroundings with evident mistrust.

Aziraphale strode forward and shook Harahel’s hand. “I’m glad you could make it! Did you find someone worthy to guard the library?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Harahel said, voice scratchy with disuse as it usually was. “I locked the doors. They’re warded quite strongly.”

“Excellent, excellent, well, we’ll try not to keep you long, in any case,” Aziraphale said, leading Harahel down the road and through the edge of Adam’s protective shield, to where Crowley was waiting beside the Bentley. “The cottage isn’t far up the road, but we figured we’d give you a ride. This car’s Crowley’s pride and joy.”

“So this…is a car,” Harahel said slowly, sounding very unimpressed as he looked over the recently washed Bentley, gleaming despite the overcast sky.

Crowley cleared his throat. “One of the finest,” he assured Harahel. “I’ve had her for almost a century now.”

“Ah,” Harahel said, giving Crowley a weak, slightly apologetic smile.

“Please, get in,” Crowley said, opening the door to the backseat for him. Harahel moved forward hesitantly, and Aziraphale motioned him in. Harahel settled in uncertainly and Aziraphale followed him into the backseat, giving Crowley a thankful smile.

Crowley climbed into the driver’s seat and, after they were all settled, started the car with a wave of his hand. The Bentley purred to life and Crowley moved it into gear, adjusting the throttle as the car started to roll forward. It was a very short trip to the cottage, Harahel looking vaguely like he was going to be sick the entire time. Aziraphale understood completely where he was coming from, though in the Bentley’s defence they were going less than twenty miles per hour in a relatively straight line.

Crowley was soon pulling the Bentley up outside their cottage, the freshly mowed grass still smelling faintly as the Bentley quieted and stilled.

“She goes much faster,” Crowley assured Harahel as he climbed out. “The roads out here aren’t the best, though.”

“Is…that so?” Harahel asked, still looking a little queasy as Aziraphale helped him from the car. “I must admit, I am not very fond of your…car.”

Crowley looked a little disappointed, but he took it in stride, leading the way through the front garden.

“This is where Crowley and I live,” Aziraphale said, suddenly a bit self-conscious. He had always found the cottage to be quite picturesque and a wonderful place to live, but it was admittedly rather small and must have appeared quite unextraordinary to someone who had spent nearly all of their life in Heaven’s magnificent library. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

“It’s…nice,” Harahel said.

“There’s a lovely garden out back too,” Aziraphale added. “Crowley’s been landscaping it.”

Crowley reached the front door and held it open for Harahel and Aziraphale, ushering them inside. Their dinner smelled delicious, its scent filling the air. Harper had been by earlier to help them prepare it, and already Aziraphale could tell that calling in that favour had been a wise decision.

“These are some of my books,” Aziraphale said, leading Harahel over to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases surrounding the fireplace. “Oh, I know you’ll love this…”

He rifled through several books on a lower shelf and pulled free a fragment of a stone tablet. He brought it over to Harahel.

“This is part of the original Ten Commandments,” Aziraphale said proudly, displaying it for Harahel’s inspection.

Harahel’s bushy eyebrows shot into his forehead. “My word, how did you get this?” He took it from Aziraphale very gently and started examining it closely.

“Nicked it from Hell,” Aziraphale said unashamedly. “They’ve actually got quite the library down there, and it turns out that Lucifer and I are on rather good terms these days, so I’ll be taking a bunch of books off his hands next week. The poor things haven’t been read in millennia.”

“…demonic books?” Harahel clarified, frowning at him.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said. “Books written by demons, many soon after the Fall.”

Harahel’s disapproving frown deepened.

Aziraphale quickly switched topics. “Uh, and, actually, I have a lot of great books written by humans too. That’s most of my collection. Here…” He carefully took the fragment of the Ten Commandments from Harahel and slid it back onto its shelf. “These books here are all early editions of important religious texts, and I have an entire selection devoted to Bibles at my London shop—well, I call it a shop, you see, as a disguise, but of course I don’t actually _sell_ anything…”

They carried on in this vein for a little longer, Aziraphale pointing out some of his rarest and most interesting books while Crowley finished up dinner. When it was ready, they all sat down, the table usually set for two seeming almost cramped with a guest.

“This is chicken scaloppine,” Crowley said, clearly working hard to remember the name, “with roasted garlic and mushroom risotto.”

“Interesting,” Harahel said. “Is this what humans typically eat?”

“Er, more or less,” Crowley said. “Have you had a lot of…human food?”

“No,” Harahel replied, but he seemed willing enough to try, watching Aziraphale cut himself a piece of his chicken and then doing the same. “Angels don’t require material subsistence.”

“But it is still _enjoyable,”_ Aziraphale said. “And since I’m human now, we’ve quite got into the habit of eating regularly.”

“Yes,” Harahel said, trying his piece of chicken. “How do you find being mortal?”

“It’s…er,” Aziraphale said, a bit taken aback by the directness of Harahel’s question. He remembered that he hadn’t properly talked to Harahel since his Fall, and decided that the librarian was probably just a little sour about Aziraphale not having visited him earlier.

“He’s not usually mortal,” Crowley said helpfully. “I took a fruit from the Tree of Life for him. It makes him immortal.”

Harahel speared himself a mushroom. “Word around Heaven is that Metatron cut down the Tree of Life.”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a glance.

“Yes, but Crowley helped plant a new one,” Aziraphale explained. “Once it’s grown, I’ll eat from that one too, and be immortal again.”

“Hm,” Harahel said, his eyes moving to Crowley. “Crowley seems quite…helpful.”

“He is,” Aziraphale said quickly, noticing Crowley casting him a slightly uncomfortable look.

“I’ve heard much about you,” Harahel said, addressing his words to Crowley now. “All the ways you’ve discorporated Aziraphale, for example.”

Crowley’s hands stilled on his cutlery.

“But recently, lots of good things,” Harahel continued, apparently oblivious or unwilling to acknowledge Crowley’s discomfort. “Aziraphale speaks of nothing else.”

Crowley relaxed slightly. “Ah…does he?”

“I do,” Aziraphale said to Harahel, a little sharply, “because Crowley means a great deal to me.”

Harahel eyed Aziraphale. “Yes, of course.” He turned his attention back to Crowley. “Tell me, do you enjoy being an angel again?”

Crowley nodded and shrugged, casting Aziraphale an uneasy glance. “It’s nice, I suppose. I used to really…disagree with a lot of Heaven’s policies, but now that things are changing it’s not so bad. But I do intend on staying on Earth for the most part.”

“Yes, I have heard much about the wonders of Earth,” Harahel said, looking back at Aziraphale. “I would be most intrigued to see a printing press, if you have one.”

“Er, the Gutenberg ones aren’t really in use anymore,” Aziraphale said, and proceeded to attempt to explain the last five hundred years of printing history. Crowley jumped in as well, filling in historical anecdotes from his time in Italy in the fifteenth century. Both floundered when it came to the specifics of how modern printing worked, and Aziraphale had to fetch a modern book from his bookshelf to show Harahel the glued signatures in the binding.

This discussion carried them through the rest of dinner, occasionally straying into short explanations of other related technology. Aziraphale felt himself relax more, happy Harahel seemed to be getting along with Crowley better.

“What did you think of dinner?” Aziraphale asked when they’d finished.

“It was…palatable,” Harahel said. “I can see how one could grow to like it.”

“The humans make a real art of it,” Aziraphale said as Crowley started collecting their dishes. “Different parts of the world have specific specialties and flavours.”

“Interesting,” Harahel said as Crowley removed his plate from in front of him and stacked it on top of Aziraphale’s. As Crowley started carrying the dishes to the kitchen, Harahel leaned over towards Aziraphale, voice conversational but carrying a somewhat superior note. “I see you’ve taught him his place.”

Crowley froze halfway into the kitchen.

 _“Harahel!”_ Aziraphale said sharply, rounding on the librarian.

Harahel seemed almost surprised by Aziraphale’s reaction, and then his expression shifted to something more neutral. “You said you had a library in London?”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes slightly. Then Crowley resumed walking into the kitchen and Aziraphale reluctantly let Harahel’s comment slide, hoping he had taken the hint.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, a bit stiffly. “That’s where I was living as an angel.”

They talked for a short while about Aziraphale’s bookshop, and when Crowley re-emerged from the kitchen Aziraphale made sure to cast him an apologetic glance. Crowley shook his head, but he did look more subdued than earlier.

Harahel asked Aziraphale if he had any unusual books on magic in the cottage, and Aziraphale brought him back over to the bookcase, showing him the two relevant shelves.

Aziraphale was just sliding his copy of the _Galdrabok_ back onto its shelf when Harahel’s gaze fell on a group of shelves to his right.

“Ah, I see you have some angelic books as well!” Harahel said, moving closer and running his finger along their spines.

“Yes, we were doing some research a while ago and started collecting them,” Aziraphale said. “I was surprised at how many we could find on Earth.”

“Well, you stole this one from the library,” Harahel said, pulling the satin-bound _Inner Workings of Angelicy_ off the shelf.

“No!” Aziraphale protested. “Crowley found that for me…where was it again, my dear?”

“In a priest’s closet in Leipzig,” Crowley supplied.

“Yeah,” Aziraphale said.

“No,” Harahel disagreed, brushing some leather flakes off of _Inner Workings_ ’ cover with a disapproving look. “You borrowed this from the library in 851 BC without my permission and never returned it.”

Aziraphale frowned at Harahel as _Inner Workings_ started making a faint humming noise. “No…” he began, and then cast his mind back. “Oh. Maybe…” The memory took a moment to return to him, and then he remembered smuggling a number of books out of the library from under Harahel’s nose one day. He’d lost a great deal of them when Crowley had dragged him out of Babylon right before its sacking by the Assyrians, though, before he’d had the chance to read them. “Actually, you might be right!”

“Of course I’m right,” Harahel said, plucking another of the leather flakes off of _Inner Workings_ ’ cover and flicking it to the ground. “I’d say you learned such wanton theft from the demon, but you always were a bit light-fingered.”

It took Aziraphale a moment to process what Harahel had said, but before he was able to protest Harahel had already turned his attention back to the bookshelf, where _An Historical Narrative of Our Lord Lucifer’s Fall_ sat next to the spot recently vacated by _Inner Workings_ , its leather binding flaking slightly.

“You shelve your heavenly books with demonic ones?” Harahel asked, looking appalled. “How repulsive.”

Aziraphale felt his patience snap. “That’s it,” he said, taking a step forward and jabbing a finger at Harahel. “You had better take that back.”

Harahel looked over at him, _Inner Workings_ beginning to make plaintive harp noises in his hands. “What? You cannot seriously think it is a good idea to put divine and diabolical books so close to each other?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale saw Crowley trying to melt into the wall.

Aziraphale ground his teeth together and folded his arms. “And what does that make Crowley and I, then?”

Harahel frowned at him. “Oh, I see. Well, he is an angel now, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Apparently it does,” Aziraphale said hotly. On the bookshelf, _An Historical Narrative_ seemed to realise that Harahel was trying to part it from _Inner Workings_ , and it shifted slightly, growling in an oddly worried tone.

“Crowley used to be a demon, yes,” Aziraphale continued, voice cutting, “and that’s who he was when I fell in love with him, and I loved him as much then as I do now. You can’t say that you’re only fine with him now because he’s an angel. If you say you accept him, then you have to accept _all_ of him, and not act like demonhood was something…something shameful that he was _cured_ of.”

Aziraphale felt a touch on his elbow and saw that Crowley had moved closer to him. “You don’t have to do this,” Crowley’s voice said quietly. “It’s okay.”

“No,” Aziraphale said loudly. “No, it is _not_ okay.” He glared at Harahel and addressed his next words to him, willing in that instant to utterly disown the only angel who had ever been a true friend to him in Heaven, and who was like a father to him. “Either you start showing Crowley some respect, or you leave.”

Harahel looked from Aziraphale to Crowley and back again, and then down at _Inner Workings_ , his expression taken aback. He ran his thumb over the edge of the book’s cover. _An Historical Narrative_ continued making reassuring, worried little scratching noises, which _Inner Workings_ matched with sad notes from its illustration of a harp.

Aziraphale kept his expression unyielding, Crowley hovering anxiously at his elbow and trying to appear small, waiting for Harahel’s decision.

After another long moment, Harahel cast them a slightly rueful look, looking suddenly very old. “It’s a new world, isn’t it?” he said, and looked back down at _Inner Workings_. “For some time before the Fall—before you’ll remember, Aziraphale—the library was open to anyone.” Harahel’s words were slow, his eyes downcast on the book in his hands. “A number of angels were regular visitors; there was a group of them, and they were interested in powerful magic. It was a harmless enough pursuit at the time, but when Lucifer started stirring up trouble I began to see those spells used as weapons by the angels who were to Fall.”

Harahel ran a finger slowly, almost wistfully, down _Inner Workings_ ’ spine. “They abused the information in the library, and I…I must admit I have held that against them for a long time.”

Aziraphale frowned at Harahel, wondering if he was supposed to accept that as an apology.

“But, more recently…” Harahel trailed off, looking like he was struggling with something. “I have come to realise that perhaps the angels were not without fault too.” He stared down at _Inner Workings_ , which was still making sad little noises, though it had quieted somewhat. “Did you ever wonder how Metatron knew he needed to cut down the Tree of Life in the first place?”

Aziraphale didn’t relax his frown, unwilling to humour Harahel and potentially let him steer the conversation away from the matter of him apologising to Crowley.

After a long silence, Harahel answered his own question. “Metatron came to me several days before your…your duel with him, Crowley. He wanted to know all the ways a corporation could be made.” Harahel took a deep breath, eyes still on _Inner Workings_. “I told him what he wanted to know, including that one way was by eating from the Tree of Life. I didn’t realise he was asking about Aziraphale until some time after he had left. I am not proud of it. In fact, I may have caused considerable damage.” Harahel shifted uncertainly, still not looking at Aziraphale. “So it seems that demons are not the only ones capable of making grave mistakes, and these days perhaps are making far fewer than the angels.”

Harahel finally moved his gaze from _Inner Workings_ , looking over at the spot on the bookcase where _An Historical Narrative_ was still making worried, longing noises. “Perhaps I have been more mistaken than I thought.”

Harahel took another deep breath and looked over at Aziraphale and Crowley. “I apologise for my behaviour. I…I have a lot to unlearn before Redemption is complete.” He looked back at the bookcase and carefully slid _Inner Workings_ back onto the shelf next to _An Historical Narrative_. Both books made relieved noises and Aziraphale saw Harahel smile slightly, giving _An Historical Narrative_ ’s leather-bound spine a tentative stroke with the back of his finger. “I suppose even a demonic book is still a book.”

Aziraphale started to relax slightly, somewhat suspicious as to Harahel’s sincerity but willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I am sorry,” Harahel said, turning back to Crowley and Aziraphale. “I didn’t come here to insult you.” His gaze moved to Aziraphale. “There is…actually something I came here to tell you.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “Well, go ahead.”

Harahel’s eyes moved briefly to Crowley, and Aziraphale felt his frown deepen.

“Crowley’s staying,” he said firmly, finding Crowley’s hand and giving it a squeeze, keeping him by his side.

Harahel only hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Do you remember when we met?”

Aziraphale gave Harahel a slightly suspicious look. “Yeah. I was impressed by the library.”

“Yes,” Harahel agreed. “It’s a long story, but we actually knew each other before then. You invented books.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I…I heard that.” He glanced at Crowley, recalling something similar Crowley had told him some time ago, and which he in turn had heard from Death.

“Well, it’s true,” Harahel said. “We were…good friends. You wrote most of the books that were in the library at the time.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “I wh—what?”

“Father wiped your memory,” Harahel said, looking a bit nervous. “Something about making sure you didn’t remember earlier events so you could play your part in His Plan.”

Aziraphale felt Crowley tug on his hand slightly. “Death said you volunteered to help with the Plan,” he said quietly. “Maybe this is why you can’t remember that.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly, piecing together what must have happened.

“I was supposed to look after you,” Harahel said, almost apologetically. “Father strictly forbade me from telling you anything that you’d forgotten. So all those books that you’d written…I had to rewrite them all. I made up all sorts of pseudonyms. But it’s no wonder you always memorized them so quickly; you were just re-reading what you’d already written.”

Aziraphale stared at Harahel in shock.

“That’s why I didn’t let you look at the library for so long, at first,” Harahel said, looking very much like he was relieved to get this off his chest. “I had to rewrite everything first.”

“But—why are you only telling me this now?” Aziraphale asked, baffled.

Harahel took a deep breath. “Father wiped your memory so you could carry out His Plan, but it looks like that Plan was Redemption. Now that your part in it is over…I wanted you to know.” Harahel rubbed one of his hands distractedly. “So of course you’re welcome to come to the library anytime, and take out anything you want, for as long as you want. You and I built that library together, and you have as much of a right to it as I do.”

Aziraphale blinked at him in surprise. “R—really?”

Harahel nodded. “I am very sorry for lying to you all this time. I was just…trying to do what Father said.”

Aziraphale gazed over at him, an odd urge to pull Harahel into a hug competing with his leftover resentment for his attitude towards Crowley.

“Thank you for telling me,” Aziraphale said at last.

Harahel nodded.

There was an uncomfortable silence, Crowley’s hand warm against Aziraphale’s.

“Well, I should be going,” Harahel said. “Thank you for having me.”

“It was no bother,” Aziraphale said, uncertainly following Harahel to the front door, drawing Crowley after him.

They paused at the threshold, Harahel readying to depart. He hesitated and then gave Aziraphale a very awkward hug, as though he wasn’t sure if the gesture would be welcome, and wasn’t very familiar with it in any case. Aziraphale returned the hug, grateful not to have lost this friend.

When Harahel pulled away, he turned to Crowley and uncertainly offered him his hand. “I am sorry for what I said,” Harahel said as Crowley shook his hand, sounding only a little like he had to drag the words out of himself. “Aziraphale really does only say good things about you, and I am sure he is a good judge of character.” He glanced at Aziraphale. “And please do take him back to the Tree of Life.”

“Yeah, of course,” Crowley said.

Harahel took a step back and turned to Aziraphale. “That car of his is a death trap, but when he visited the library he put all the books back in the right spots, so that’s something.” He looked back and forth between them. “And you do seem…happy together.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley’s hand a squeeze and looking Harahel straight in the eye. “We are.”

Harahel nodded. “Then I wish you good fortune.” He turned to leave, looking down the road in the direction he’d come from.

“Can you find your way back?” Aziraphale asked. “You’ll want to get out from under the shield first.”

“I’ll be fine,” Harahel said, taking a few steps down the drive.

“Thanks for visiting!” Aziraphale called after him, and he saw Harahel raise a hand in acknowledgement as he reached the road and started down it on foot, moving past the Bentley and back towards the edge of the shield.

“Thank you,” Crowley told Aziraphale quietly when Harahel was almost out of view.

“Hm?” Aziraphale said, and then realised what he meant. “Oh, yeah. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t think he’d be like that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Crowley said, and leaned over to give him a tentative kiss on the cheek.

“Well, at least I know I did the right thing by not inviting him to the wedding,” Aziraphale pointed out, giving Crowley’s hand a squeeze. “Can you imagine?”

“Might have put a damper on things,” Crowley agreed with a hesitant smile. “But who knows, maybe we can be a good influence on him.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Aziraphale said, and returned Crowley’s kiss with one of his own, long and sweet.

 

~~***~~

 

Oswald Osbert Osprey walked slowly along the pavement in the village that had once been his home, eyes nervously scanning the once-familiar houses and shopfronts.

He had gone to Somerset Lane first, parking his car on the edge of the village and continuing by foot out of fear of anyone recognising the vehicle. The police had let him off with no marks on his record, but Oswald knew that he was guilty and wasn’t willing to put it past the villagers to seek their own retributive justice. The policewoman who’d brought the news had said that Mr Anthony Crowley was all right and not pressing charges, but the memory of what he had done to the poor man was heavy in his mind, and he wanted to be rid of it.

Now that he had the name of his victim, he felt even worse. He was seriously considering committing himself to a psychiatric hospital for his angelic delusions, but had decided to first make sure that Anthony was all right with his own eyes. Perhaps he would be able to shed some light on what had happened to Oswald, too.

The little cottage on Somerset Lane had been quiet, though, and when Oswald had nervously knocked no one had answered.

He had then started into the village on foot, half-hoping to run into Anthony there. He didn’t know if his own name had been made public as a suspect in the case, but he glanced over his shoulder every dozen metres just in case. He wouldn’t have blamed the villagers if they spotted him and wanted to seek some retributive justice of their own.

Oswald was just passing the pub when he saw a familiar figure striding towards him along the pavement. Oswald’s mouth twisted as he recognised who it was, and he considered crossing the street or ducking into the pub to evade him. He couldn’t quite stir up enough enthusiasm for either option, though, so he just kept walking, briefly entertaining the notion that perhaps the other man wouldn’t recognise him.

He did, though, calling Oswald’s name even before he came to a stop in front of him.

“I’m glad I caught you,” Father Gilbert said, giving Oswald a smile that was far too bright. “Oswald Osprey, right? My illustrative predecessor.”

Oswald nodded reluctantly.

“You don’t seem very well. Is there something on your mind?”

Oswald just looked at the other priest, remembering how he had ranted to the bishop about his heresies. It seemed like such a minor sin now. Oswald had nearly killed a man twice on orders from a creature that had claimed to be an angel; if that had been the will of God, then perhaps Father Gilbert’s heresies were exactly what religion needed.

“Do you believe in angels?”

Father Gilbert’s smile didn’t flicker. “I do. But they are not God.”

“…no,” Oswald agreed.

“I believe that they are creatures like any other,” Father Gilbert said conversationally, motioning for Oswald to walk with him. “Like mankind, they have free will.”

Oswald considered that, feeling too exhausted for theology. His faith had been severely shaken in the last few days, and he doubted if he’d still voluntarily hold the title of reverend by the end of the year.

“Have you had an experience with angels, Oswald?”

Oswald stared at the pavement as they walked. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I think I have gone mad. Or else God has.”

“I think we can safely rule out the latter,” Father Gilbert said reassuringly. “And you don’t seem mad to me.”

Though Oswald had so recently been utterly opposed to everything Father Gilbert stood for, he suddenly found himself clinging to his sensible-sounding words now, wondering if a fellow man of the cloth could perhaps understand something he had not.

“Can I tell you something?” Oswald asked. “Confidentially?”

“Of course,” Father Gilbert assured him.

Oswald took a deep breath as they started across the street, Father Gilbert glancing around for traffic.

“There’s a man named Anthony who lives here in the village,” Oswald said, his voice heavy with guilt. “He was hit by a car several weeks ago. I—I was the one who did it. An angel told me to.”

He expected Father Gilbert to laugh, or perhaps stare at him, and at the very least stop walking, but Father Gilbert did none of those things, continuing to walk steadily forward as though dozens of his parishioners confessed similar crimes on a regular basis.

“And you wish to know why the angel told you to do it?”

“I wish to know _anything!”_ Oswald cried, pulling his gaze up from the pavement. “It—it was either an angel or a demon, or perhaps it was all just a human putting on a show. But it—it threatened my family. It made me kidnap Anthony _twice_. If it was an angel—what does that make God? Is He a vengeful master, or does He just not exist at all? Have I been a fool all along?”

“It is not foolish to believe in something more,” Father Gilbert said sensibly, his every word like a salve. “You have not erred in that regard. But you must consider the source for your beliefs. This angel who spoke to you—even if he claimed to speak with the voice of God Himself, were you given any evidence that he actually knew what God wanted?”

“It was an angel!” Oswald protested. “Or it—it claimed to be. Am I to question every messenger? The saints, the prophets, even the apostles—nearly everything of what we know about God is secondhand. Thomas doubted so that we would not have to. We are to follow faith blindly; that is the whole point.”

“But God has also blessed you with reason,” Father Gilbert countered mildly. “It is only to be expected that He ask you to use it from time to time.”

“I don’t know!” Oswald cried, hands working anxiously. “I don’t know what to believe. But I think, if God does exist, I have certainly failed Him.”

“Have some faith of your own,” Father Gilbert said, drawing to a stop outside of a very pretty red-brick cottage with a front garden overflowing with flowers. “You are not the first to be misled by religion, and you will not be the last. But just because some demon masquerading as an angel misuses religion does not mean that the entire concept is without merit.”

Father Gilbert put his hands on Oswald’s shoulders. “Atone for your mistakes, if you can, and do right in the future. Just remember: your God is one of love. That is all the firsthand information you need.”

Oswald opened his mouth in puzzlement to ask how exactly that was firsthand information, and that was when the door to the cottage opened.

“And, in your case,” Father Gilbert said, patting Oswald’s shoulder, “you should probably see a therapist.” And then he gave Oswald a kind smile, turned, and quickly walked away.

Oswald stared after him in confusion as he heard voices from the direction of the cottage.

“—visit again soon, dears!” said the clearest one.

Oswald swallowed heavily and glanced over as two figures started strolling down the garden walk towards him, the door to the red-brick cottage closing behind them. Then Oswald made eye contact with the thinner figure, and they both froze.

Anthony grabbed onto the arm of his companion and dragged him to a stop. He hastily whispered something to him, his eyes never leaving Oswald.

Anthony’s companion looked around quickly, as though scanning the undergrowth for possible threats. Oswald felt himself shrink slightly, suddenly unprepared for this moment. Anthony seemed equally unprepared, but after a few seconds he and his companion started cautiously moving closer.

“Uh, hi,” Anthony said. Oswald couldn’t help giving him a once-over, but he really did look to be in good health. Oswald was certain he had broken Anthony’s arm when he’d hit him with his car, and he had appeared very unwell in the hospital in Tabriz when Oswald had swapped out his conspicuous hospital gown for the pile of clothes sitting near the foot of the bed, but he seemed all right now. At least, he appeared to be walking all right, and it didn’t look like he was clinging to his companion’s arm out of need for physical support.

“Hello,” Oswald said in a very small voice. “I’m Oswald. I—I didn’t mean to find you here, but I just…I wanted to apologise.”

“…okay,” Anthony said.

Against his will, Oswald’s eyes went to the left hand of Anthony’s companion, which was hovering in front of his midsection, as though in preparation for an action, and locked onto the gold wedding band resting on his finger. Oswald remembered seeing a similar band on Anthony’s hand as he’d heaved him into his car’s boot and stripped him of his mobile phone. He had wondered at the time who he’d been taking him away from, and, later, if he had a family of his own. Now, seeing the firmness of Anthony’s grip on his companion’s arm, how close they were standing, and the slightly suspicious, very protective expression on his companion’s face, he thought perhaps he had solved that mystery.

“I—I think—someone told me to kidnap you,” Oswald said haltingly. “They threatened my grandnieces if I didn’t do it. I’m really very sorry. I tried to get myself caught by the authorities, but I’m afraid it was too late. I’ve never had anything against you, personally.”

“Oh,” Anthony said, exchanging a glance with his companion, who relaxed slightly. “I heard about what happened from the police, yeah. I’m sorry to hear that about your grandnieces. Are they okay?”

“Y—yes,” Oswald said, surprised to be asked. “Do you—do you know anything about what happened…?”

Anthony considered him for a moment. “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he said at last. “It was a…a sort of personal matter. But it’s all sorted now, and we caught the person responsible.”

Oswald blinked at him in surprise. Was he talking about the angel?

“I—the man who approached me—he…”

“Yes, him,” Anthony said quickly. “He’s locked up. And I’m almost certain he’s not after you in particular. It was me he wanted.”

Oswald felt a wave of relief pass over him. “Oh. Fantastic!”

“Yeah,” Anthony said. “Don’t feel too bad about it. If he hadn’t found you, he would have picked someone else.”

Oswald nodded gratefully, already feeling much better.

“But if you would do me a personal favour, please…don’t sneak up on me like this.” Anthony gestured to where he was currently standing.

“Oh! Oh, no, of course not!” Oswald said, suddenly horrified at how insensitive he must appear. “I actually live in Suffolk; I was just visiting. I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

“Oh, good,” Anthony said, looking a little relieved.

“And if I do, I’ll make sure to give you plenty of advance notice,” Oswald assured him.

“Great,” Anthony said, and glanced at his companion, who gave Oswald what looked like a very reluctant smile. “Well, er, thanks for stopping by, I guess.”

“Sorry if I…put you on edge or anything,” Oswald said, stepping out of their way as they continued onto the pavement.

“It’s all right,” Anthony said as they passed. He paused for a moment. “Do yourself a favour, and go visit those grandnieces of yours, okay?”

“Of course,” Oswald said, feeling so much better for the knowledge that Anthony was all right and, through some miracle, didn’t appear to hold a grudge. “Thank you.”


	37. The Midfarthing Metropolitan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter, just the epilogue and then the author's note!

Harper hummed to himself as he strode between the tombstones, moving from the older ones that listed drunkenly to one side to the newer stones, their inscriptions still crisp and legible.

He spotted the pear tree and made a beeline for it, the basket under his arm pressing against his ribs as he moved closer. When he was a dozen metres away, he was surprised to see that a rather nice-looking silver fence had been constructed around the tree and the grave beneath it.

The fence, which consisted of vertical bars interwoven with metal ribbons forming elegant swirls, was about a metre and a half tall, making it difficult but not impossible to climb over. There was no visible gate.

Harper walked around the circumference of the fence in surprise, wondering when it had been installed, and why. The best explanation he found was on the large rectangular sign affixed to the side facing the road.

‘EATING THE FRUIT OF THIS TREE REMOVES YOU FROM THE SIGHT OF GOD,’ read the sign in all caps. Underneath it, in slightly smaller red letters sandwiched between two large arrows pointing to it from either side, were the words ‘DO NOT TOUCH.’

Harper looked at it, empty basket in his arms. “Huh.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Make way, make way!” Crowley called as he crossed the pub, holding aloft an amber-coloured, cylindrical bottle. It was early afternoon, so the only patrons in the pub were the party clustered around the bar. Heads swivelled as he approached, Bert looking up from his place leaning against the far side of the bar.

“Let me present a gift to the happy couple,” Crowley declared, gesturing first to Bert and then Donnie, “in very late recognition of their sixth wedding anniversary: one of the _very last_ bottles of 1988 Ragnaud Sabourin on this fine planet.”

With a great flourish, he set the bottle of brandy on the bar. Mara and Aziraphale applauded.

“So you did manage to find another one?” Bert asked, sounding impressed, as he picked up the bottle and examined the label; the original surprise had been somewhat ruined when he’d recognised the bottle that had been smashed at the scene of the car accident.

“I _did_ ,” Crowley said proudly. “I had to go all the way to Newcastle to get that, _twice.”_

“It looks just like I remember it,” Bert said fondly, eyes sweeping over the shape of the bottle.

“If you’ve quite finished admiring the bottle,” Donnie said, voice teasing, “some of us could do with a drink.”

This elicited a faint laugh from the assembled, and Bert held the bottle to his chest in mock horror. “But it’s so beautiful! Cracking this seal would be an injury to connoisseurs of fine liquor everywhere!”

Crowley laughed as he slid onto the vacant barstool next to Aziraphale, giving his husband a quick kiss of greeting on the cheek.

“I suppose I can make this sacrifice for my best girl, though,” Bert said with exaggerated bravado, but the kiss he leaned across the bar to plant on Donnie’s lips was genuine.

Bert set about opening the bottle, a line of empty martini glasses already sitting expectantly on the bar.

“When’d you say Harper would be getting here, dear?” Donnie asked Mara.

“Should be any time now,” Mara said, checking the time on her mobile. “He said he was just finishing up something special.”

“Should we wait for Father Gilbert too?” Bert asked as he pulled the cork off the bottle of brandy.

“He told me this morning he was going to be a little late,” Donnie supplied. “He said we could start without him.”

“Sounds good,” Bert said, and raised the open bottle of brandy to his nose. A smile spread across his face. “Oh, this is the good stuff, all right.”

There came the sound of the pub door opening behind them, and everyone looked over as Harper arrived, a large cardboard box in his arms.

“Hullo! Sorry I’m late.”

“Not at all! We’re just getting started,” Bert said, beginning to pour a measure of brandy into each of several waiting shakers. “This is some fantastic brandy, let me tell you.”

“Brilliant,” Harper said, sliding the box onto the bar. “I brought some tarts for everyone. Do we want those now or later…?”

“Now’s good,” Bert said, unscrewing the cap on a bottle of vermouth. “It’ll take me a minute to make these.”

“Great,” Harper said, propping open the lid of the box. “This is a brand new recipe, but they smelled fantastic when I was baking them, so fingers crossed.”

“I’m sure they’ll be great, Harper,” Aziraphale reassured him. “You’ve never made a bad pastry in your life.”

“And he would know,” Crowley added, a bit cheekily, eliciting a ripple of laughter and earning himself a swat to the arm.

“All right, just pass them down,” Harper said, pulling out the first tart and handing it to Donnie, who was on the end. When the tart reached Crowley, he saw that it was about the size of his hand, with a beautifully corrugated pastry edge and four long, thin slices of some sort of fruit resting atop a sticky-looking brown filling. There was an artful dollop of cream atop each one, and they smelled strongly of hazelnut.

“Wow, they really look great,” Crowley said as he handed the one in his hands to Aziraphale and accepted the next one as his own.

Everyone else voiced their agreement as Bert found some small plates and forks under the bar and started handing them out. The tarts were small enough to pick up and eat by hand, but they looked like they might become prohibitively sticky to hold after a few bites.

“What kind of fruit is it?” Donnie asked as Crowley took a bite of his tart.

“Pear,” Harper said as the flavour rushed over Crowley’s tongue, “with hazelnut in the filling.”

“Mm, they’re quite good,” Bert said, pausing in his preparation of their drinks to take a bite himself.

“Where’d you get the pears from?” Donnie asked. “They’re excellent.”

“Yeah, that’s a funny story, actually,” Harper said. “You know that tree in the cemetery by the church?”

All at once, Crowley, Aziraphale, Bert, and Mara choked.

“Whoa,” Harper said in alarm, looking up from his own half-eaten tart.

Crowley wasn’t able to avoid swallowing the bite already in his mouth, and he hastily gulped in a breath as he grabbed onto Aziraphale’s arm, not knowing what would happen next but wanting to make sure that they stayed together.

“The—the pear tree in the cemetery,” Bert said, sounding horrified. “This—these pears are from _that Tree?”_

Harper looked at them all in puzzlement, finding only a similar expression on Donnie’s face. “What? No. These are from the market in Tewkesbury.”

There was an audible sound of relief from the assembled, Crowley pressing his forehead into Aziraphale’s shoulder as Aziraphale set his tart down with more force than strictly necessary, rattling the plate against the bar.

 _“Christ_ , Harper,” Bert said. “Don’t scare a body like that. I’m nearly sixty.”

“What—what’s so bad about the tree in the cemetery?” Harper asked, looking around at them in alarm. “Is it poisonous? Is that why I was supposed to keep people away from it?”

“Y—yeah,” Bert said.

“It’s a rare breed,” Crowley supplied, pulling away from Aziraphale’s shoulder. “But very poisonous.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Harper said, looking horrified. “I didn’t know.”

“But these aren’t from there?” Mara confirmed.

“No, no,” Harper said quickly. “I was _going_ to get some from the tree in the cemetery—you know, local Midfarthing produce and all—but there was a fence and this scary sign. I mean, I can read. It said not to touch, so I didn’t.”

“What do you know, humanity’s learned something after all,” Crowley whispered to Aziraphale, who gave a short, still somewhat stressed laugh.

“Well,” Bert said, taking a deep breath. “I certainly need a drink now.”

“Hear, hear,” Mara said, and Bert picked up the cocktail shakers. When he had finished mixing and pouring the drinks, he added two maraschino cherries on a swizzle stick to each glass and handed them out.

“The Midfarthing Metropolitan,” Bert said, raising his glass for a toast. “So named by my wonderful wife many years ago. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” everyone agreed, Crowley clinking glasses with Aziraphale and Mara.

The drink went down smooth, with wonderful hints of fig, honey, and something that might have been dates, followed by the sharp, bold burn of the brandy at the end.

“Bravo!” Harper said as he lowered his glass. “Quite excellent!”

“At least the three decades of working at a pub weren’t for nothing,” Bert said cheerfully.

They broke up into smaller groups after that, Crowley and Aziraphale chatting with Mara while the other end of the bar devolved into an impassioned discussion of whether or not the presence of a slice of lime on the edge of a drink actually improved its taste in any material way.

After a while, the argument was won—apparently the practice had a firmer grounding in tradition than it did the culinary arts—and Bert drifted over to chat with Crowley and Aziraphale, Mara moving further down the bar to say something to her husband.

“So I hear you’re thinking about retiring?” Crowley asked as Bert joined them. “This place won’t be the same without you.”

“Yeah,” Bert agreed. “In a couple of years. Unlike you two, I won’t be here forever, so I figured I might as well kick back while I can still lift my legs that high.”

Aziraphale snorted.

“Do a bit of travelling if we can, that sort of thing,” Bert continued. “I’m sure you two have gotten around; where would you recommend?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a very long look, and Bert grinned.

“Well,” Crowley said, “Aziraphale will fight me on this, but there’s this great restaurant in Paris that has the absolute _best_ view of the Seine.”

“It’s an _okay_ view,” Aziraphale corrected. “If you can stand eating _duck_. Where you really want to go is the Plaza Athénée.”

After five minutes of good-natured arguing over whether the spectacular view of the Tour D’Argent compensated for its overdependence on duck as a culinary staple, Bert raised a hand to stop them.

“All right, all right, I get the picture. World-weary travellers so weary they decide to never go out to eat again.”

“Pretty much,” Aziraphale admitted. “We quite like England.”

“The weather’s rubbish,” Crowley complained immediately.

“The weather’s fine,” Aziraphale corrected.

“Too cold. Rainy.”

“Just because _you_ think baking all day on a beach is enjoyable,” Aziraphale began, in the tone of voice of someone who has had this conversation before.

“But…it is…” Crowley protested, and grinned when Aziraphale leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek anyway.

“Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you two about,” Bert said, glancing over at the others to make sure they were still absorbed in their own conversation. “I was thinking about…God and the master Plan.”

“What about it?” Crowley asked, idly chasing the swizzle stick in his drink around the rim of the glass with one finger.

“I heard that you two, er, were in quite a bit of it.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed.

“Was that…by choice?”

Crowley frowned at Bert, trying to figure out what he was getting at.

“Sort of,” Aziraphale said. “I guess I volunteered, though I don’t remember it. Crowley…well, he did sort of get forced into it.”

“The way it was explained to me,” Crowley said, “there was this big disaster that was going to screw the entire Earth over—the whole universe, really—and I was…sort of enlisted to play a part in saving it. So no, I wasn’t asked, but, I mean…frankly, I like the universe. I don’t mind.”

Bert blinked at them in surprise. “So you don’t, like, have a bone to pick with God?”

Crowley considered the question for a moment and then glanced over at Aziraphale to see what he thought. Aziraphale shrugged.

“Not really,” Crowley said. “I guess we made our own decisions along the way, and God just sort of played the odds.”

“And even if there was a bit of meddling,” Aziraphale added, “it turned out all right in the end, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, smiling at Aziraphale. “I’m honestly just so grateful the two of us wound up together. I don’t care how we got here; I’m just happy to be here.”

“Me too,” Aziraphale said, and they exchanged a brief kiss.

“So what…er, what do you think happened to God?” Bert asked. “Where do you reckon He is?”

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other and shrugged in unison.

“Heaven?” Aziraphale guessed. “Overseeing Redemption in Hell, maybe?”

“Nah,” Crowley said. “He’s probably on a nice beach somewhere.”

Behind them, Crowley heard the door to the pub swing open. “Ah, I’m very sorry for my tardiness!” Father Gilbert’s voice said. “We’re having such lovely weather, aren’t we?”

 

~~***~~

 

_Five Years Later_

 

The new Tree of Life was just as beautiful as the original, though the sapling still had a long way to grow. Its visual effect was also somewhat ruined by the fact that, instead of being surrounded by a large, perfectly flat clearing, it was crammed in between a bunch of other, larger trees.

Thankfully, the new Tree didn’t seem to mind the crowding at all, and had this year produced its very first fruit.

“Aziraphale ate from the original Tree first, so Aziraphale should be able to eat from this one first too,” Crowley said firmly.

“Aziraphale is merely mortal,” Venus shot back. “Everything Ishtyr touches dies, and would you not agree that that is the more severe predicament?”

“It was my idea to plant a new Tree,” Crowley began.

“Crowley, my dear, they can go first,” Aziraphale said, putting a hand on Crowley’s elbow, and at the same time Ishtyr said, “I don’t mind waiting.”

Ishtyr turned his gaze back to Venus. “Beelzebub will be wondering what is taking us so long. If you two hadn’t started bickering in the first place, we could have both eaten by now.”

Crowley looked slightly pained, but waved his hand towards Ishtyr and Venus nonetheless. “Fine, sure. Venus, go ahead.”

Venus stepped towards the Tree, eyes on the nearest peach. This shape was quite unlike Lucifer’s previous form, full-figured and rather short, with curly black hair, smooth brown skin, and a long, quite beautiful magenta dress befitting a queen. Her three sets of wings were folded behind her, a half-dozen white feathers on each wing standing out against the swaths of black. She reached up for one of the peaches and plucked the fruit from its branch effortlessly.

She walked back to Ishtyr as Crowley stepped past her towards the Tree, reaching up to pluck a peach himself. For a moment, as his fingers just brushed the peach’s skin, Aziraphale vividly recalled the last time he had seen Crowley reach up for a peach like this. A jolt of irrational fear went through him as he remembered how Crowley had crumpled as the magic of the sigil had attacked him, and how he had barely left the circle alive.

Crowley paused, hand on the peach, and looked back at Aziraphale in concern, and Aziraphale knew he had felt his fear. Aziraphale motioned for him to keep going, reminding himself firmly that there was nothing to be worried about. Venus had just taken a peach without springing any sort of trap, and there was very clearly no sigil around this Tree.

As predicted, nothing untoward happened when Crowley pulled the peach free, the branch springing back into place as Crowley walked back towards him.

Aziraphale glanced over at Ishtyr and saw that he was waiting to take a bite, the peach in one of his gloved hands.

Crowley walked over and held the fruit of the Tree of Life out to Aziraphale, a hopeful smile on his face. “Here.”

Aziraphale returned his smile, accepting the peach and taking Crowley’s hand with his free one. He looked over at Ishtyr and nodded. Together, they raised the peaches to their lips.

Fresh peach juice flooded Aziraphale’s mouth as he took a bite, sticky and sweet, and he swallowed, squeezing Crowley’s hand to let him know that everything was okay.

“Did—did it work?” Crowley asked anxiously just as Aziraphale felt the clock of mortality ticking away inside of him stutter to an abrupt halt.

In the same instant, the pervasive feeling of being swept along towards his death vanished. No longer were unknowable hands pulling him away from Crowley, dragging him closer to that cold darkness with each passing second. He felt whole again, at last, and utterly safe in a way that was difficult to feel with the shadow of death cast across oneself.

Aziraphale let out a shaking, relieved breath, and saw Crowley grin in response, hand tightening on his own. He glanced over at Ishtyr, who was holding his half-eaten peach and striding quickly towards the nearest tree. He pulled one of his gloves off as he went, Venus following anxiously on his heels.

Ishtyr reached the nearest tree and paused, bending down to gently touch a nearby bush instead. When nothing happened, he let out an excited breath and quickly ran his hand through a clump of grasses, and then laid his entire palm flat against the trunk of the tree. Then he turned, took the two necessary steps to Venus, and launched himself into her arms.

“Oh, my old friend,” Ishtyr said. “We are well met at last.”

Aziraphale smiled at them, and when he returned his attention to Crowley he received a hug of his own, Crowley pulling him into his arms.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, holding Crowley close and knowing that he would be able to continue to do so for hopefully millennia more.

“We’ve got eternity, angel,” Crowley said, squeezing him. He pulled back very slightly, golden eyes dancing. “I can think of no better person to spend it with.”

“Me neither,” Aziraphale said, and he moved his free hand to Crowley’s cheek as he leaned forward and kissed him.

 

~~***~~

 

When Metatron saw a human-shaped figure detach itself from the trees at the edge of the clearing and start towards him, he felt his heart skip a beat in shock. He hadn’t seen another person in the years since the archangels and other seraphim had locked him in this sigil, though at several times he could have sworn there had been slight changes in the sky colour in the cardinal directions, indicating that one of the gates had been opened. The illusions never persisted for more than a few minutes, though, and Metatron was increasingly beginning to think that he’d imagined them. Several days ago, he’d even thought that he’d heard distant voices, but he’d found himself doubting his certainty of that just minutes later. He was going slowly mad, he was sure of it; the solitude had been worse than he’d expected.

Metatron blinked furiously at the figure, and, when it failed to vanish like a mirage, he stood, his ethereal wings bristling. Though his wings weren’t manifested, the binding properties of the sigil still affected them, trapping his wings as readily as his body. An unfortunate consequence of this was that he hadn’t been able to stretch his wings for years, unable to move any part of his body—ethereal or otherwise—past the inner circle of the sigil, which was only marginally larger than the Tree’s stump.

“Who comes?” Metatron asked when the figure neared and he failed to recognise it. Given that the Seal of Solomon was still on his finger, though, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he was unable to recognise one of his brothers if they had a different corporation than the last one he had seen.

“I do,” said the figure, extremely unhelpfully. It was a man, Metatron saw, a rather nondescript one wearing all black except for a white clerical collar. He didn’t have any wings, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t hiding them away.

“What do you want?” Metatron growled, trying to hide how relieved he was that the stranger wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Or perhaps he was, and talking to shadows was just what Metatron had been reduced to.

“I’d like to talk,” the man said, strolling closer unconcernedly. As he neared and Metatron got a better look at him, he could have sworn that he’d seen the man’s face somewhere before, but he couldn’t place it.

“How’d you get in here?” Metatron asked next, eyes darting around the horizon for the shift in sky colour that indicated an open gate.

“Does it matter?” the stranger asked, coming to a stop nearby. A metal folding chair appeared out of nowhere and the man settled down onto it, facing Metatron. “Please, take a seat.”

Metatron blinked at him. “Are you an angel or a demon?”

“Neither,” the man said. “Please, sit.”

Metatron didn’t know what to make of that, but he sank back onto the Tree stump nonetheless. “If you can get me out of here, I’ll help you,” he said. “I am a very powerful seraph.”

“Oh, no, I think you’re right where you ought to be,” the stranger said. “I just wanted to chat.”

Metatron folded his arms, his faint hope of escape crushed. “And why would I give you information for free?”

“Oh, I don’t need information _from_ you,” the stranger said. “I want to help you.”

“Me? Help _me?”_ Metatron echoed. “Unless you have the strength of four seraphim, you cannot help me.”

“I believe that I can,” the man said, leaning back in the folding chair and crossing his legs. “And I believe that I must. You see, this was not meant to be.”

Metatron narrowed his eyes at the stranger. “What do you mean, ‘meant to be’?”

“I mean, the timeline diverged unexpectedly,” the man said. “And although technically you are correct that nothing, not even the Plan, was fully preordained, this particular offshoot from the timeline was my fault personally.”

Metatron stared at the man in confusion. What did this stranger know of the Plan?

“I feel responsible, you see,” the man continued, “and so I would like to help you.”

“And just exactly who are you, again?”

The man tilted his head to the side, the movement strangely unnerving for someone so physically unthreatening. “Do you not recognise me, Metatron? Yet you claim to know my mind so well.”

Metatron eyed the man uncertainly.

“It is a pity,” the man said, “for I am God.”

Metatron stared at him, hating the Seal on his finger more than ever, hating his inability to feel for another presence, to tell if this was a lie. “You are not God,” he said, but not with complete certainty.

“You see, this is the problem,” the man said, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. “You do not recognise me when I am here, and yet you see me in so many other places. You know very well, Metatron, that you have not been my true Voice for many millennia.”

Metatron stared at the stranger, far more unnerved than he cared to admit. This had to be some sort of hallucination, perhaps brought on by his extended solitude and the years of sitting in direct sunlight.

“You are not crazy,” the stranger said, as though reading his mind. “And it really is me.”

“Then—then you can release me,” Metatron said, clinging to this new train of thought. “You _will_ release me. I was right, wasn’t I? About Redemption being a ploy? Free me, and I will enact your will.”

The man sighed and sat back in the folding chair. “Metatron, Metatron, Metatron. Do you even listen to yourself?”

Metatron frowned at him, feeling frustrated and puzzled in equal amounts.

“Why do you think I’m talking to you and not all the others?” the stranger asked. “The good shepherd does not come to the ninety-nine sheep that did as he wished; he comes to the one sheep that strayed from the flock.”

Metatron eyed the stranger uncertainly. “But I _was_ doing the will of God. I _am_ His Voice.”

 _“Metatron,”_ the stranger said heavily, rubbing his eyelids. “You were my measurer, yet when it comes to realising where my will ends and yours begins you seem to have no concept of distance.”

Metatron glowered at the stranger, though the reference to the meaning of his name left him a little wrong-footed; that wasn’t common knowledge, even among the angels.

“You have used my authority to further your own interests,” the man said. “You have disgraced both my name and your own. For that crime, you will remain here in exile for a time.”

Metatron stared at the man, appearing so unextraordinary and yet making such bold claims, and wondered if this really was his Father, returned after all this time.

“Those angels who Fell into the Abyss suffered for six millennia before hope came to them,” the man said, “and your crime is no less severe.”

Metatron felt his breaths pick up, thinking about the eternity that had passed during his lifetime and wondering with poorly disguised fear if he was to spend as long a span here, utterly alone.

“But I am a God of love, not vengeance,” the man said, “and I believe a fraction of that time will suffice in your case.”

The stranger reached into one of his pockets and withdrew an apple. It was perfectly ripe, skin a bright, unmarked red, glistening slightly in the sunlight. “Here,” he said, and tossed it to Metatron.

It never should have reached him. By all rights, it should have rebounded off the shield the sigil maintained, keeping objects out as well as Metatron in. But it sailed straight over the sigil as though it were no more potent than a child’s chalk creation, and straight in Metatron’s half-expectant hands.

Metatron caught it clumsily and then his eyes shot back up to the man. Metatron reached his foot towards the edge of the sigil but the invisible wall was still there, keeping him trapped. But for the apple to have reached him, to have passed the warding as strong as four seraphim…

Metatron stared at the man. “F—Father?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” the man-shaped being said, settling back in His folding chair.

“Oh—oh,” Metatron said.

“Take a look at that apple,” God suggested, steepling His fingers. “It’s a fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Which is just over there, as you know.” He gestured behind Himself, into the Garden. “This fruit will not Redeem you—that will take much time—but it is a good place to start.”

Metatron stared down at the apple. “To start what? I do not need Redemption.”

God gave him a very kind smile. “Everyone needs Redemption, Metatron. The fact that you cannot see your wrongs makes your need all the greater.”

“But I…” Metatron looked up at his Father, suddenly seriously entertaining for the first time the notion that he might truly have been wrong all along. It shook him to his very core. “I—I was just doing what you said. You cast out the demons, and I…why would you do that if you didn’t want them gone?”

“I didn’t cast out the demons,” God said, voice heavy. “They cast themselves out. Trust me, I never wished for the Fall. I wept when they Fell, so many of your brothers and sisters. So much pain and anguish awaited them, more than their crimes could ever have merited. But, please, don’t take my word for it.” He motioned towards the apple in Metatron’s hand. “Take a bite.”

Metatron looked slowly down at the apple, wondering what secrets it would tell him. He glanced at his Father one last time and slowly raised the apple to his lips, sinking his teeth in and taking a bite.

And then Metatron’s eyes were opened.


	38. Epilogue

_Twenty-Five Years Later (Thirty Years After the Present)_

 

“Just this way,” Ludwig said, leading Bert through yet another heaven, this one just as blank and grey as the rest. “We’re almost there. These are all part of the new heaven system we’re implementing; I know they’re not very exciting-looking right now, but they’re actually designed for multiple occupancy.”

“…yeah,” Bert said, looking around with only slight interest as Ludwig led him through another invisible door. “Where exactly did you say we were going, again?”

“Oh, it’s a surprise, of course!” Ludwig said. They strode across another blank grey expanse and Ludwig slowed to a stop beside the next door, just as invisible as all the rest had been. “This is it! Are you ready?”

Bert looked at Ludwig, his stomach in knots, and thought that he hadn’t felt less ready for anything in his entire life—or, now, death.

Ludwig raised his eyebrows at him and reached for a spot of thin air. At that moment, there was a faint chime from somewhere around Ludwig’s midriff and he jumped slightly, a smile crossing his face. He quickly pulled a mobile phone out of a pouch on his belt, glancing briefly at the screen and smiling. “Oh, it’s Philippe, he’s so sweet.”

“Um,” Bert said nervously.

“Oh, yes, sorry,” Ludwig said, hastily shoving his mobile back into its pouch. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat and reached for that same patch of blank space in front of Bert again. “This is you.” His hand closed around something and a vertical crack of light appeared in the greyness in front of Bert, the negative space of a door being pushed ajar.

Bert’s heart leapt into his throat and stayed there as he apprehensively pushed the door open and stepped forward.

The blank grey space vanished as Bert moved forwards, a new world opening up around him, this one warm and bright and smelling strongly of tea.

It took Bert a moment to recognise that he was standing in the sitting room of his old house, the one he had shared with Ann. Little Caroline was playing with a toy train on the floor, and she looked up as he stepped fully into the space, hearing the invisible door close quietly behind him.

“Daddy!” Caroline cried, leaping to her feet and running to him, throwing her arms around his legs.

“Sweet pea,” Bert said, feeling himself already beginning to get choked up as he realised whose heaven this was. An emotion rolled over him then, too bittersweet to be named, a joy at being able to share his afterlife with Ann mixed with a profound sadness that he would likely never see Donnie again, though she had preceded him to the grave only a little under a year ago.

“Bert?” Ann’s voice said, oddly hopeful, and a moment later she appeared at the foot of the stairs, looking absolutely beautiful in a knitted jumper and slacks, a smear of blue watercolour paint on one cheek. Caroline looked around too, still clinging to Bert’s legs.

“Hello, dearest,” Bert said, voice choked. “I waited, like you said, and had adventures.”

A broad smile crossed Ann’s face, and she crossed to him and pulled him into a hug. “Thank you. I’m glad you made it here.”

Bert nodded wordlessly, trying not to think about how much Ann’s jumper looked like something Donnie would knit.

“Come,” Ann said, taking his arm and leading him across the sitting room. Bert went numbly, tears pricking at his eyes as Ann pushed open a half-ajar door at the far side of the room. He barely registered that it was a door he had no memory of having existed in their house, distracted by Caroline following along after him, her sky-blue dress bouncing with her every step.

Bert looked at the floor as he wiped ineffectually at his eyes with his sleeve, and he sniffled in surprise when he saw the short tan carpet of the sitting room give way to a rustic wooden floor covered with a brightly coloured rug.

“Bert!” a very familiar voice said, and Bert’s head snapped up in surprise.

Donnie hurriedly set aside her knitting and leapt to her feet, waking the curled form of their cat Persephone, who had been snoozing next to her on the sofa.

“D—Donnie?” Bert stammered.

“Who else were you expecting?” Donnie asked, and grinned as she threw her arms around him. She was so much younger than when he had last seen her, but so was he, though distressingly his idea of ‘eternal youth’ seemed to have grounded in early middle age.

“I—I’m so happy to see you,” Bert said, pulling Donnie into a hug and taking a moment to just breathe in the scent of her hair.

“You could have waited a little longer,” Donnie said when she pulled away, giving him another beautiful smile. “What’s it been, a year?”

“A little less,” Bert said, cupping her face and just soaking in the sight of her, so absent from his last months.

He felt Caroline grab onto his leg again and looked down at her expectant, cheerful face, his hand falling from Donnie’s cheek. Then he looked up again, first at Ann and then back at Donnie.

“But I don’t…you two…?” He looked back and forth between them, happier than he had thought it was possible to be and yet certain he had missed something crucial.

A wry smile crossed Ann’s face. “What, you thought I wouldn’t like her?”

Bert blinked at her. “I—I mean—”

“He has no faith in us, does he?” Donnie asked with a grin.

Bert looked back at her.

“We worked it out,” Ann said. “We’re happy to share.”

Bert looked back and forth between them. “…really?” he asked, voice warbling. “But you’re not—not…upset?”

“Not at all,” Ann replied. “Like I said, I never wanted you to spend the rest of your life alone. I understood what that meant.”

“And we know you have enough love in your heart for both of us,” Donnie said. “You always did care so much.”

“Plus,” Ann said, looking fondly down at where little Caroline was tugging insistently on Bert’s trouser leg, “looking after a child is hard work. We need all the help we can get.”

Bert felt his eyes begin to water again, looking back and forth between Ann and Donnie, more grateful than he could express. “I—I don’t— _thank you.”_

“It was our pleasure,” Ann said, giving him a genuine smile.

Bert registered that Caroline was still pulling on his trouser leg, and he sniffled mightily and looked down at her, realising she was trying to get his attention. He dropped down into a squatting position, closing his hands gently over hers to still her tugging. “What is it, Caroline?”

“Are you staying for real this time, Daddy?” Caroline asked, eyes wide and bright.

“Yes,” Bert said, feeling more tears escape his eyes as he gently touched his daughter’s cheek. “Yes, sweet pea, I’m never leaving again.”

He looked up then, at the two beautiful, brilliant, kind women whom he had had the utmost honour of sharing his life with, and felt more tears spill down his cheeks. “I love you both so much.”

Donnie smiled at him, the kindness in her expression so clear. “We know.”

Ann smiled too, and it was like a warm embrace after a long winter. “Welcome home.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Angel,” Crowley said, voice flat with disbelief even as he felt excitement rush through him.

“Hm?” Aziraphale asked from his place on the sofa, eyes never leaving the book in his hands.

“I—I think—” Crowley stammered, standing and moving away from the kitchen table, the _Daily Telegraph_ clutched in his hands.

Aziraphale looked up as Crowley neared, holding the folded newspaper out to him. “I…I think I solved the crossword puzzle.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked up to meet his in surprise, and he quickly took the newspaper from Crowley. “Really? My dear, that’s wonderful!” He hastily set his book aside and stood, eyes scanning over the matrix of black and white squares. Though a number of letters were scribbled out and, in some cases, written over, every square was filled in.

Aziraphale moved towards one of the end tables and fished around in the basket underneath it, which was where they kept a small stack of newspapers collected solely for their crossword potential. It took Aziraphale a moment to locate the _Daily Telegraph_ from the day after the one whose puzzle Crowley had completed, flipping to the appropriate page and comparing the published solution with Crowley’s answer.

Crowley waited with barely contained excitement as Aziraphale’s eyes flicked back and forth between the newspapers, looking for discrepancies.

After a long moment, a broad smile spread across Aziraphale’s face. “Congratulations, my dear! You’ve done it perfectly.”

Crowley let out a breath of disbelief, and when he stepped forward for a hug Aziraphale met him halfway, wrapping his arms around him.

“There was a—a hard part there in the middle with a clue asking about Bond chauffeuring a hobbit,” Crowley said breathlessly when they parted. “But then I realised it was a joke about James Bond’s Aston Martin, and then Martin _Freeman_ , so the answer was _Aston-Martin-Freeman_ , and I cannot believe I figured it out, but then a bunch of the other clues started making sense, and I figured the rest of it out from there!”

“Excellent work,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley’s shoulder a congratulatory pat. “I’m proud of you, my dear; you really stuck with it.”

“Yeah, it took me long enough,” Crowley said, but even his wry words couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm at having finally bested one of the puzzles.

“Would you like to try cryptograms next?” Aziraphale asked innocently.

“Oh, don’t even start, angel,” Crowley said with a groan. “I’ll stick to one mode of suffering at a time, thank you very much.”

Aziraphale laughed and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Well, if you’d like to try your hand at another of my hobbies, this book I’m reading is quite interesting.”

“Which one is it?” Crowley asked, taking the newspapers as Aziraphale retrieved the book he’d been reading from the sofa.

“Henry’s latest,” Aziraphale said, bringing it over and showing Crowley the dust jacket cover. It was quite flashy, a boy and a rocket ship taking up most of the space while the towering shelves of a library filled the background. ‘H. A. Harper’ read the author’s name.

“It’s young adult fiction,” Aziraphale continued, “so not my usual cup of tea, but it’s quite the read. I think he sort of remembers Heaven, actually; the library is uncannily recognisable, and there’s a character I’m certain is based on Harahel.”

Crowley snorted. “Bet he’ll get a laugh out of that.”

“I bet he will too,” Aziraphale agreed. “I’m going to give him an autographed copy the next time he visits.”

“You’re spoiling him, I’m telling you,” Crowley said, moving over to the kitchen table to set down the newspapers, intending on double-checking his answers for himself.

“But not as much as I spoil you,” Aziraphale teased, following Crowley and giving him another kiss as he looked back around.

“Mm,” Crowley agreed, crosswords quite forgotten.

“When do you want to get going?” Aziraphale asked when he pulled away.

“I suppose anytime,” Crowley said, glancing at his watch.

“After we visit Bert and Donnie, I want to stop by and see how the Fab Four are doing,” Aziraphale said, walking back over to the sofa and setting Henry’s book down.

“That’s such a ridiculous name for them,” Crowley said as he headed for the door. “Though I still maintain that they got the idea from me in the first place.”

“I’m sure they just forgot, my dear,” Aziraphale said consolingly. “And you should have heard some of the alternatives Harry and Alexander were bandying about. Trust me, an accidental Beatles reference is the best-case scenario.”

Crowley made a noise of understanding as he pulled his coat off its hook and began to shrug into it. “Oh, and after that I should check in with Kazariel. She’s been brainstorming some strategies with Phanuel, and I guess they want my opinion.”

“Sure,” Aziraphale said, joining Crowley by the door. “By the way, did you hear about that bake sale at the church? Mara keeps insisting we bring something, and she says it can be small, but obviously Harper’s going to come out of retirement just long enough to demolish us all.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Crowley said with a laugh, patting down his pockets to make sure he had his gloves. “Father Gilbert’s _still_ the vicar, right?”

“Yeah,” Aziraphale agreed, buttoning up his coat.

Crowley frowned at his husband. “Hasn’t it been, like, fifty years?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Something like that.”

“That man is aging _phenomenally,”_ Crowley said, pulling the beautiful tartan scarf Aziraphale had once knit him from its hook and wrapping it securely around his neck.

Aziraphale shrugged again. “I dunno; good genetics, maybe? And those adverts on the telly do seem to be selling an awful lot of…what do they call it? Medical treatments to make you look younger.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. He considered for a moment. “Must be,” he decided, and opened the front door.

He led the way around the outside of the cottage, past Aziraphale’s ice-tipped flowerbeds and the small, heated, detached garage he’d had built to store the Bentley over the winter months. The two of them made their way around to the back garden, where the beech and fir trees had grown tall and wide, creating an effective natural screen around the back garden.

Crowley pulled his wings into the physical plane and shook out two brilliant white pairs while Aziraphale stretched the third.

“Bit chilly for flying,” Crowley remarked, tugging the scarf around his neck a little tighter.

“It won’t be for long,” Aziraphale said, flexing his wings. “Spring will be here before you know it.”

Crowley coughed. “Bit chilly,” he said again. “So chilly. So very, very cold.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes but took the hint. He strolled over to Crowley. “Oh, you poor thing,” he said, and put his arms around Crowley. “There, is that better?”

“Much,” Crowley said, and leaned in for a kiss. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s sides, his bare fingers weaving into the soft white feathers of Aziraphale’s borrowed wings. His eyes slid closed as he sank into the kiss, just enjoying Aziraphale’s warmth and proximity.

It was some time before they parted, two warm feelings now burning in Crowley’s chest, both Aziraphale’s affection and his own.

“I love you,” Crowley told him, because he wanted to remind Aziraphale of it every day for the rest of eternity.

“I love you too,” Aziraphale said, and kissed the tip of Crowley’s nose.

Crowley made a contented noise, snuggling closer and feeling utterly at home in Aziraphale’s arms.

“We really ought to get going,” Aziraphale commented mildly after a moment, but made no move to release Crowley.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, one hand drifting to the back of Aziraphale’s neck. He began to card his fingers through his partner’s hair, his wedding ring glinting in the sunlight. “Do you reckon they can wait another ten minutes or so?” he asked, admiring Aziraphale’s beautiful ice blue eyes. Despite their cool hue, they were so soft and warm as they gazed back at him, their colour broken only by the tiny fleck of gold tucked into Aziraphale’s iris.

“Hm,” Aziraphale said, gazing back into Crowley’s equally beautiful, serpentine eyes. “You know, I bet they can,” he murmured, and leaned in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!


	39. Author’s Note

Huzzah, you reached the end! I think I worked most of my little narrative parallels/jokes/etc. into the fic proper overtly enough that I won’t ramble on about them too much here, but I’ll fill you in on some of the more obscure ones.

But first, a big thanks to all of you for reading this far! I do intend on this being the final (for realsies this time) installment of this series, and frankly it’ll be a miracle if any of you fools read all 500,000+ words. God, that’s a lot of words.

But thank you for reading them! This three-year project has been an incredible opportunity for me to hone my writing skills and really enjoy the process of making (some) original characters, practicing world-building, and taking the “finished” end of _Inheritance of Eden_ and spinning it out into a new story without (hopefully) cheapening its ending. But as much as I love this universe and these characters, it was all of you as readers, commenters, and kudos-leavers who made me feel that the unbelievable amount of time I put into this was well-spent! And extra extra hugs for all of you who leave such long and lovely comments!! I love them all so much. So thank you all for reading, and for sticking with me until the very end! :D

Special thanks to DoctorTrekLock and Spinner12 for beta’ing, as always. Bonus points to those of you readers who have been with me every step of the way, since the very beginning. And if Sonnet23 ever gets to translating this far, I sincerely apologize for my inability to be succinct.

 

Remember to check out my Eden!verse masterpost of goodies [here](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/159960726218/edenverse-masterpost)! There’s **loads** of art (by both myself and readers like yourselves!), as well as [a brand-new Eden!verse-inspired playlist](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/181119883418/welcome-to-my-edenverse-playlist-if-youve-read) and other extras. And if you prefer reading in Russian, the lovely Sonnet23 is working her way through translating _A Memory of Eden_  [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/963033). Check it out!

 

Now a few short comments on the story, and then two long sections, one about the religious references and the other about the physical and ethereal planes:

 

**Fresco of Dante’s _Inferno_**

If anyone wanted to see the fresco Donnie remembers when she’s looking at Hell for the first time, here it is:

 

To give you an idea, this thing truly is _huge_ (it's the painting in this transept on the right-hand wall): 

You can also pan around the church on [their nifty online virtual tour](https://assets.smn.it/virtual-tour/) if you like.

 

**The Gates of Hell**

If you’re familiar with Dante’s _Inferno_ , you might have recognized one of the opening epigraphs (“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here”) as part of the text that’s written on the Gates of Hell. The scene in the fic directly after Metatron Falls (in the chapter cunningly titled ‘Regain All Hope, Ye Who Exit Here’) takes place just _outside_ the gates of Hell. It is therefore symbolically important that _that_ is where the archangels make their pronouncement about allowing Redeemed souls back into Heaven, since (according to Dante, at least) hope cannot exist within Hell proper. So, just outside of Hell it is!

 

**Prophecies**

You remember that prophecy of Agnes’s from way back in _A Memory of Eden?_ The one about ‘death cometh amongst the lilies’ bloom’? Well, I hope you noticed that that prophecy came true three times: when Aziraphale dies in their front garden surrounded by lilies in _Memory_ , when snake!Crowley dies at the veterinary clinic surrounded by lily-plastered wallpaper in _Inheritance_ , and when Ishtyr arrives in Hell holding a bouquet of lilies in _Redemption_.

But do you remember the lines _after_ that bit? The ones that mentioned a ‘fern of nightt’ and a ‘knavish Cathar manne’?

If anyone caught those references, I would be very impressed, but you did have to do quite a bit of digging, so I’ll point them out here:

The ‘fern of nightt’ refers to the plant nightshade, which appears in _Inheritance_ in the form of ‘Nightshade Road,’ which is where the aforementioned veterinary clinic is located. It’s also the only road in those sat nav instructions that isn’t actually in London.

The ‘knavish Cathar manne,’ a bit more obscurely, refers to Oswald Osbert Osprey. Catharism was a medieval Christian gnostic movement whose adherents believed that the God of the Old Testament was evil and the God of the New Testament was good, and that the two were constantly at odds. Oswald says almost this exact thing when he’s talking to Walter Jamieson at the cafe in Charringford. Additionally, the symbol of the Cathars is a Greek-style cross, which is what Oswald has as a necklace:

 

 

**Ludwig's New Boyfriend**

Fun fact: Ludwig’s new BF “Philippe” is Philippe I, Duke of Orléans, who was well-known in seventeenth-century France for his open homosexuality and flamboyant personality—in other words, he’s perfect for Ludwig. Conveniently, he’s also the younger brother of “Sun King” Louis XIV, who was Ludwig's idol. There’s a story here!

 

**The Apple in Hell**

There’s a certain poetic irony to the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil being passed around Hell masquerading as itself, since Zephrades didn’t know that it was anything but an ordinary old apple. And I do imagine that it gets passed around Hell—Barabbas will hand it to another demon as Zephrades handed it to him, and so on, until it becomes legendary in its own right.

Here, then, is another motif of Redemption: humanity Fell by taking the apple and eating from it, but now demons can seek Redemption by giving the apple, uneaten, to others.

Of course, there’s also an odd little resonance with the pear tarts that Harper makes, with all this Edenic fruit being mistaken for ordinary fruit and vice versa. And speaking of pear tarts…

 

**Harper’s Pear Tarts**

Here’s [the recipe for Harper’s pear tarts](https://www.taste.com.au/recipes/pear-hazelnut-tarts/09207468-0b11-4301-83d7-42ace76fbe79), if anyone’s interested.

I did make these myself (*cough cough* “research”), but I’m including the photo from the recipe website here because it looks far more like Harper’s tarts would (i.e., professional) than my ill-fated attempt at baking, lol: 

 

**Bert's Brandy**

Oh, and here's Bert's 1988 Ragnaud Sabourin Grande Champagne cognac, because of course I researched all of this:

 

**Barabbas**

To circle back around to Barabbas for a moment, you might recognize the name from the story of Christ’s crucifixion. Barabbas was the criminal (insurrectionist, murderer, etc.) whom the crowd asked Pontius Pilate to release instead of Christ at Passover. Christ remained in Roman custody and was crucified shortly thereafter, meaning that Barabbas was indirectly responsible for his death.

You may also have noticed that Barabbas the demon has a streak of grey in his hair, as did the demon in _Inheritance_ who injured Crowley with his sword—they are the very same. So yes, I’m saying that the Biblical Barabbas was really a demon who’d been wandering around on Earth causing trouble and accidentally ended up contributing to Christ’s crucifixion. Since his later attack on snake!Crowley in _Inheritance_ ultimately led to Crowley’s death, you will understand why Barabbas thinks himself incapable of Redemption—he keeps killing God’s chosen saviors.

Luckily for him, no one is beyond the reach of Redemption.

 

 

**The Problem of Hell**

One of the most prominent themes in this fic is (unsurprisingly) the idea of Redemption for the damned, both human and demonic. This concept is actually a very old, highly disputed theological problem, conveniently called “The Problem of Hell.”

For my purposes, the two main heresies I’ve committed here are supporting Pelagianism and universal salvation as posited by Origen.

**Pelagianism**

Pelagius was a fourth-century British monk who thought that a person was perfectly able to live a sinless life without any special involvement with God or even Christianity. Morality, Pelagius believed, was not inherently tied to religion.

Because of this, Pelagianism also neatly did away with the related theological problem of the “virtuous pagan”: a righteous person who died unaware of Christ, either because they predated him or because they lived in a place where Christianity had not spread. Such a virtuous pagan, according to Pelagius, could achieve Heaven as easily as a virtuous Christian, by virtue of living a moral life and regardless of their religious inclination.

Since all this thinking implied that the Church was unnecessary for salvation, it should not be surprising that the burgeoning Church was not a fan of Pelagius. They quickly asserted their own position, stating that acceptance of Christ was in fact a prerequisite for entrance into Heaven.

This means that a virtuous pagan like Aristotle (who died before Christ was born) would be automatically consigned to Hell. A lot of people weren’t happy with the idea of all their favorite classical writers/poets/philosophers/etc. rotting in Hell, though, so the Church posited another doctrine: the Harrowing of Hell. According to this doctrine, in the three days between Christ’s death and resurrection, he passed through Hell (“descended to the dead”), rescued all the righteous pagan souls, and sent them up to Heaven. This way, the Church could place the virtuous pagans of the pre-Christ years in Heaven while still maintaining that Christ is necessary for entrance into Heaven (since it was through Christ that they were rescued).

The Harrowing of Hell only applied to those who had died before Christ's own death, however, which meant that modern-day (medieval) pagans were still excluded from Heaven. This was convenient for the Church, because it was also looking for justifications for its extreme missionary (read: conquering) zeal. If pagans or heathens in distant lands were unaware of Christ, then their souls were automatically consigned to Hell. Missionaries, therefore, were wholly justified in taking any steps needed (read: conquering) to bring Christ to these foreigners and offer them salvation.

The Church’s position on Pelagianism basically boiled down to a belief that there was nothing a non-Christian person could do to help them get to Heaven. All anybody could do was believe in Christ, but ultimately the decision rested in God’s hands alone (“it is by grace you have been saved”). This stance had the unintended corollary that Church attendance and such virtues as charity were therefore rather pointless, since nothing anybody did had any impact on their future salvation anyway; everything was in God’s hands. By the late medieval period, the Church had adjusted their position slightly and adopted “semi-Pelagianism” as they began granting indulgences, which were prized precisely _because_ they helped ease an individual’s passage into Heaven. There was no longer _nothing_ a person could do to get into Heaven—the final decision still rested in God’s hands, but every coin given to the Church was a solid mark in your favor.

My use of this heresy is present in the entire mechanics of Falling and unFalling. Though some angels and demons still think that God has a direct hand in such matters, in reality each of them holds their fate in their own hands (e.g., Crowley unFalls himself, and Metatron Falls himself). It is their own morality that determines whether they will gain or lose Heaven, not any decrees by Father Gilbert. Free will for everyone!

**Universal Salvation**

Here’s another quality heresy, this one coming from Church Father Origen of Alexandria. Origen believed that God’s forgiveness and penchant for salvation were unlimited, meaning that, some day, everyone would be saved. Later scholars followed this to its logical conclusion, which was that eventually even the demons and Lucifer himself might be saved.

As can be imagined, the Church had severe problems with this as well. Universal salvation is integral to the larger Problem of Hell, and namely the question of whether Hell and all those in it will eventually be saved. If, following the prophesied events of Revelation, the denizens of Hell are left to suffer forever, then surely that means that God is cruel? If we consider Hell to be the place of punishment for the wicked, then there is no point to the punishment if no corrective action results from it. A God who would allow His children to suffer for eternity, the logic went, must certainly be wicked and perhaps no better than Satan himself. Alternatively, if Hell is to be saved (thus attesting to God’s great love and powers of forgiveness), some theologians worried that the finite punishment awaiting wrongdoers in the next world wouldn’t act as a suitable deterrent for doing evil in this world.

The theological debate raged back and forth for literally millennia. Augustine took a particularly uncharitable position on the issue, believing that the vicious nature of torture in Hell and the ability of human bodies to withstand it for eternity was “a miracle of the most omnipotent Creator.” Another popular belief, especially early on, was that the suffering of the damned in Hell was meant to serve as _entertainment_ for the saved in Heaven (since the righteous are meant to enjoy watching the punishment of wickedness). The salvation of someone like Lucifer was seen as the ultimate injustice, because upon his redemption and return to Heaven he would definitionally be considered equal to the Apostles and even the Virgin Mary. In my story, Jophiel mentions a “moral freezing” that occurs at death. This was an actual theological stance that held that you couldn’t be saved after your death because you were physically incapable of repenting or atoning for what you had done while you were alive (in other words, the dead have no moral agency). The Problem of Hell isn’t even settled today.

On another note, during his life Origen converted a wealthy man named Ambrose, who was so impressed by his teachings that he provided him with a team of scribes and paid for his books to be published. Sounds like someone else we know…

  

Here are some honorary mentions for the epigraph, all related to the Problem of Hell:

 

“All will be redeemed in God's fullness of time…All the strayed and stolen sheep. All the little lost ones.”

–Madeleine L'Engle

 

“And in those ages to come God will show the riches ‘of his grace in kindness,’ since the worst sinner, who has blasphemed the Holy Spirit and been ruled by sin from beginning to end in the whole of this present age, will afterwards in the age to come be brought into order.”

-Origen, _On Prayer_ , XXVII 12

 

“Whensoever any such criminal in hell shall be found making such a sincere and mournful address to the righteous and merciful judge of all; if at the same time he is truly humble and penitent for his past sins and is grieved at his heart for having offended his maker, and melts into sincere repentance, I cannot think that a God of perfect equity and rich mercy will continue such a creature under his vengeance.”

–Isaac Watts (1674-1748)

 

“But whether among those orders that live under the chieftainship of the devil and conform to his wickedness there are some who will one day in the ages to come succeed in turning to goodness by reason of the power of free will which is in them, or whether it be true that long-continued and deep-rooted wickedness turns at last from a habit into a kind of nature, you, reader, must judge.”

–Origen, 73, _On First Principles_

 

 

 

**The Physical and Ethereal Planes (how ALL the stuff actually works)**

There were several people in the comments with questions about how *exactly* all this physical–ethereal plane business works, so I figured I’d write it all out for anyone was was interested. It was a bit difficult to grasp as just text, though, so I added some helpful graphics as well. Parts of it are still a bit confusing, which I apologize for, but I was trying to be as thorough and specific as possible. To aid with comprehension, I’ve underlined some of the main take-aways and important points. But feel free to skip if you're not interested!

 

First off, think of the physical and ethereal planes as dimensions that lie parallel to each other like two sheets of paper resting atop one another. Every set of spatial coordinates in the universe can be plotted on both of these planes. The relative strength of the planes varies depending on location, and, in any given place, whichever plane is stronger can be considered as being “on top.” The weaker plane, which is “on the bottom,” is functionally invisible, intangible, etc., to anyone standing in the “top” plane, and vice versa. This is because planes add a fifth dimension to our regular 4-dimensional framework, meaning that 4-dimensional beings simply cannot perceive them (if you’re familiar with string theory, it’s the same phenomenon).

Next, think of “physicality” and “ethereality” as two distinct qualities that any item (including a person) can possess. Everything in the universe has an ethereal component—it’s just the basic building block that everything is made out of; God's coding language, if you will. Most things in the universe (stars, planets, the Earth, humanity, cherry red Swingline staplers) also have a physical component. There are some things/people that don’t have physical components, only ethereal ones—namely angels, demons, and all of Heaven and Hell. Angels and demons are wholly ethereal because God created them out of the firmament (i.e., Heaven), which is itself wholly ethereal. Since, for our purposes, angels and demons are the same thing, I shall refer primarily to just “angels” from here on out, but demons are the same case.

While there are only two planes—the physical and ethereal—whichever plane is “on the bottom” (weaker in any given area; for instance, the ethereal plane on Earth) holds two different sorts of objects (“true” objects and “carbon copies”) that do not properly interact with each other. This is a difficult concept to convey graphically, so I decided to divide these two sorts of objects into two “quasi-planar” spaces just to help with explanations. I’ll show you what I mean and then explain:

 

 

The distinction between “true” objects and “carbon copies” depends on the relationship between the physical and ethereal components of an object. The breakdown is thus:

  * “True” objects = existed in one plane before being bound to an object in another plane
  * “Carbon copies” = were created simultaneously with their corresponding component in the stronger plane. (Carbon copies always exist on the plane “on the bottom,” and mirror their component on the plane “on the top”).



To illustrate what I mean by “carbon copies,” let’s look at a regular old toaster. As I said before, everything in the universe has an ethereal component, so we know that the toaster will be on one of the two blue sub-planes (which together constitute the ethereal plane) in the above illustration. Because it’s an Earthly object, the toaster will also have a presence on the physical plane. Since the physical plane is “on top” while on Earth, our toaster will for sure have a physical component on the physical plane (red). The question is then which of the two blue quasi-planes our toaster’s ethereal component lies on. By consulting the distinction above, and by knowing that the toaster was created with an ethereal self (everything we would consider “regular matter” is like this, since God created matter all at once in the Big Bang) instead of being magically bound to one, we can place the toaster’s ethereal component on the light blue sub-plane (the carbon copy part of the ethereal plane):

 

 

In Heaven, where the ethereal plane is “on top,” this effect is reversed. The toaster’s ethereal component (which is identical to its physical component in every regard except for its being ethereal) is now present in the “top,” ethereal plane while its physical component lies on the carbon-copy sub-plane of the physical plane:

 

 

The reason for the “carbon copy” name is because objects that exist in this quasi-plane act as carbon copies of their identical component in the stronger plane. Like writing on carbon-copy paper, whatever changes occur to the upmost sheet (the “top” plane) are mirrored exactly onto the lower sheet (the “bottom” plane). Remember that the “carbon copy plane” isn’t a real plane, just a way of thinking about how to separate objects in the same plane that are bound vs. created. The reason this distinction is important is because bound vs. created objects—even if together in the same plane—do not interact properly. To illustrate this, let’s add an unincorporated angel to our diagram. Since angels are wholly ethereal (i.e., they were originally made as just ethereal beings), and this angel in particular doesn’t have a physical component (a corporation, which he would be bound to), he exists in the “true ethereal” part of the ethereal plane:

 

 

You’ll notice that, at the bottom of this illustration, I’ve combined the two “sub-planes” of the ethereal plane. This bottom section is the true two-plane model, with the objects that are carbon copies (toaster and table) rendered with 30% opacity on the ethereal plane to indicate that, though they are fully present in the ethereal plane, they are a different sort of thing than the angel, who is “truly” ethereal.

The reason that the angel and the toaster are different (even though they are both ethereal) is because they have different relationships with the “top” plane, which is the one that matters. Ethereal components that are carbon copies have no “agency” of their own, and only duplicate the movements, etc. of the physical components that they mirror. The angel, however, is wholly ethereal and does not imitate anything on the physical plane precisely because it _is_ wholly ethereal and therefore has no physical counterpart. Because of this difference in “agency,” objects in the “true ethereal and “carbon copy” quasi-planes do not interact properly. When in the physical plane on Earth, one cannot see or interact with the ethereal plane. While in the ethereal plane on Earth, a “truly ethereal” angel can see but only _half-interact_ with objects in the carbon-copy sub-plane, and cannot see or interact with the physical plane at all. This is why, when Aziraphale is wandering around ethereally in _The Inheritance of Eden_ after his and Crowley’s trip to Eden, but before Aziraphale eats the peach, he can only half-interact with his surroundings (he meets a sort of “half-resistance” whenever he tries to touch anything). Recall that earlier I said that you can only see one plane at a time, due to the limitations of the 4-dimensional mind in 5-dimensional space; this is why, when Aziraphale is on Earth in the ethereal plane and without a corporation, he cannot see (much less interact with) the physical plane. But since every object on the physical plane has an identical ethereal component in the carbon-copy ethereal quasi-plane, Aziraphale _is_ seeing an accurate depiction of what the physical plane looks like even while not being able to see the plane itself.

The other weird thing about the carbon copy “quasi-plane” (and why it makes sense to model it as a sub-plane even though it’s not) is that objects that are carbon copies rest “atop” those that are “truly” ethereal. To explain this better, let’s look at the case of an incorporated angel. 

Corporations are physical vessels created by angels so that they can wander around on Earth, where the physical plane is “on top.” When a corporation is created in Heaven, then, it needs to be physical so that it can be useful. But everything in the universe  _must_ have an ethereal component, so the corporation does as well. When the angel is bound to the corporation and visits Earth, the result is thus:

 

 

The angel’s corporation, which is treated the same way as any other piece of physical matter (like our toaster), appears in the physical plane and the carbon-copy sub-plane of the ethereal plane. The angel’s ethereal self remains “truly ethereal.” Because the carbon-copy quasi-plane is grafted “on top” of the true ethereal quasi-plane, the result is that the corporation’s carbon copy rests “atop” the angel’s real (truly ethereal) self. This is why, when Aziraphale was wholly ethereal in Eden, his attempts to touch Crowley resulted in him still meeting a half-resistance; he was interacting with the carbon-copy component of Crowley’s corporation, which was overlaying his true ethereal self. This is also why, if two incorporated angels set about strangling each other on Earth, the result is still discorporation, and not true death (the death of the ethereal self of the angel)—the ethereal carbon copy would be strangled before the angel’s true ethereal self was reached. It is important to remember that the carbon-copy quasi-plane _isn’t_ a separate plane from the true ethereal quasi-plane, however tempting it is to think about them that way. In my example with Crowley, both his truly ethereal self and the carbon-copy of his physical corporation are completely ethereal and exist in the same space (the ethereal plane); it’s just that the carbon-copy part exists _first_.

You’ve probably figured out how discorporation works by now, but it’s what it says on the tin: the death of the physical corporation severs the magical bond between the corporation and its angel, allowing the angel to return to Heaven unharmed while the corporation perishes. So, if a human (who, while alive, is indistinguishable from any other piece of matter, like a toaster), stabs an incorporated angel on Earth, the corporation (both the physical and ethereal carbon-copy) are killed while the angel’s true ethereal self remains unhurt:

 

 

Since we’re talking about humans, let’s explore them a little further. As I said, humans (while alive) have physical and ethereal components like any other piece of regular matter (stars, toasters, etc.), and exist in the “top plane” and as carbon copies on the “lower plane.”

Things get weird when a human dies, because humanity is God’s little exception. At the moment of death, the “carbon copy bond” between a human’s physical and ethereal selves breaks. The physical body dies and is discarded, but the person’s consciousness is preserved in their ethereal self. Simultaneously, they are reaped by Death and appear to him in a liminal space halfway between the planes (collectively, “matter”) and the Void (“non-matter”). Since this space is technically not in either the physical or ethereal plane, Death has the ability to manipulate the planes and view whichever he wishes (as he does in _The End of Eternity_ when showing the newly dead Aziraphale Crowley’s equally newly white wings). Up until this point, the ethereal self of a human has been a carbon copy of their physical self. Since there is no physical self left for the ethereal self to be a carbon copy _of_ , however, their ethereal self now _becomes_ part of the “true” ethereal sub-plane. This is the only instance where this occurs. Because this switch takes place, and because the liminal space Death occupies is wholly outside of planes and the physics of carbon copies, the newly dead soul appears as their subconscious expects them to. This form, once established, continues to inform the shape of the ethereal human once Death sends them on to Heaven or Hell.

This then explains why it took ages for anyone to realize that Donnie wasn’t actually dead. In Heaven, where only the ethereal plane is visible, her ethereal self was almost indistinguishable from the ethereal selves of the actually dead humans. The only real difference was that she still had a physical component, but since it was in the physical plane it was invisible while she was in Heaven. What a close inspection of Donnie’s ethereal form revealed, then, were the marks of having been “molded”—marks made by having been the carbon copy of a physical corporation, and which would have been erased by a trip to Death’s liminal space.

 

Next up: ethereal weapons. As already established, stabbing an incorporated angel on Earth with a regular old knife is only going to hurt the corporation and not the angel’s ethereal self.

The same knife in Heaven _would_ hurt the angel, because the ethereal component of the knife would directly interact with the ethereal component of the angel (their self):

 

 

Note here that both the angel’s ethereal self (w/ wings and aura) and the ethereal component of their corporation (placed slightly offset for illustration purposes) are present in the ethereal plane. This is why, if an incorporated angel is injured while in Heaven, the corporation sustains the same damage (e.g., Crowley being stabbed in the shoulder at the beginning of _Memory_ ). This is also why clothes donned on Earth, etc. continue to appear while in Heaven. Meanwhile, the carbon copy sub-plane holds the toaster, human, and knife (which, as regular old Earth things, have a physical component, and which, as created and not bound objects, are carbon copies). The carbon copy of the angel’s corporation also appears here, because when the corporation is made, it must be physically _created_  (with both physical and ethereal components) before being bound to the angel. So the corporation itself is subject to the carbon-copy effect, while the angel + corporation pair is not. And, in case you were wondering, there is no such thing as a “true physical” object, because everything in the universe must have an ethereal component, and to be truly physical a physical object without an ethereal component would have to exist independently, at least long enough to be bound to an ethereal object.

Back to weapons. So, since this hypothetical knife is a “mortal” blade (i.e., made by those foolish humans), any wounds it inflicts would be healable. If left untended, however, such a wound could prove lethal, because the damage would have been inflicted on the angel’s ethereal self instead of a disposable corporation.

It’s a different case for Edenic flaming swords and other weapons made by Heaven or Hell. These weapons are specifically forged to inflict wounds that are impervious to healing by magical means. Additionally, they are designed to always pose a threat to the ethereal self of an angel. To accomplish this, the blades are made from wholly ethereal materials in Heaven/Hell and then bound to a physical form (which definitionally has an ethereal form of its own) in the same way that wholly ethereal angels are bound to physical corporations. In Heaven, an unincorporated angel with such a weapon facing the same incorporated angel as before would appear like this:

 

 

Notice that there are two flaming swords present in the ethereal plane. One is the ethereal sword, and the other is the ethereal component of the physical sword that is bound to it. The physical component of that sword is also present in the carbon-copy part of the physical plane. The flames themselves are produced magically, so don’t worry about how exactly those tie in (magic and miracling and all of that is a whole ’nother 3,000 word essay).

 On Earth, a flaming sword being wielded by an incorporated angel appears thusly:

 

 

Here, you can better see the division between the physical sword and its carbon-copy counterpart and the wholly ethereal sword.

In summary, since divine/diabolical weapons exist ethereally and are then bound to a physical & ethereal form the same way that wholly ethereal angels are bound to corporations, they can pose a threat to angels/demons regardless of where they are wielded. As shown above, a blow by such a weapon on Heaven, Hell, or Earth will injure both the angel and their corporation (if they have one at the time).

 

Now, one last section about wings and auras, which you’ve probably noticed are only present ethereally. Both are parts of an angel’s ethereal self which have no counterpart in a corporation and thus remain “unmanifested” in the physical plane. Both are also reflections of the angel’s soul. I sometimes use the word “soul” to colloquially refer to somebody’s ethereal self (especially when I’m talking about dead humans), but properly speaking the soul _inhabits_ the ethereal self. If an angel were to lose a limb to a Hellish sword, for instance, they would not lose a limb’s equivalent of their soul. The package size would change, but the contents would remain the same.

Wings and aura _do_ reflect changes in the soul, however. This is why every angel and demon (and technically every human, though theirs are very small) has a unique aura. (Auras—and especially their sizes—are also related to how powerful the angel is, but I’ll not get into that today). This is also why an angel’s feathers will change color if they are about to (un)Fall—their wings are reflecting a change in their owner’s soul. Furthermore, this is also why Aziraphale and Crowley, after swapping pieces of their souls, wound up with flecks of each other's eye colors. A headcanon of mine is that the eyes of angels and demons are the only things that don’t change between corporations, because they are “windows” to the ethereal self, which in turn houses the soul.

Wings are also a bit of a special case because they are specifically designed  _to_ move between planes. As such, they can actually produce pseudo-physical components on demand (when "manifested" in the physical plane). This psuedo-creation and psuedo-destruction of physical matter (you can also think of it as an “impression” of the wholly ethereal wings on the physical plane) is directly related to the spell that Crowley uses in _Inheritance_ to “impress” Aziraphale's ethereal self onto the physical plane long enough for him to eat a peach.

Lastly, when an angel is incorporated on Earth, their physical corporation sort of “overrides” what they can feel from their ethereal body. Since auras and wings have no physical counterparts in corporations, though, and because an angel’s “true” self is still ethereal and attached to their wings/aura, angels can still sense auras and their wings even when incorporated, though to a lesser degree than they can when in Heaven or Hell, where the ethereal plane is stronger.

 

Whew! That was a lot. It really didn’t seem all that complicated in my head until I sat down to actually write it out, lol. I hope at least some of it made sense. :D

 

 

But thank you all again for being my readers, and for sticking with me on this wonderful journey. It means the world to me. <3

 

 

**UPDATE May 2019**

Since I'm a book designer by trade, I decided to put this series into book format (including making lots of cover art for it)! Since it's still fanfiction, I can't sell copies of the books, but you're welcome to check out [all my pictures](https://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/tagged/eden!verse-books) of the copies I had printed if you like. Thanks again for reading! :D

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst... and remember to check out [the Eden!verse masterpost of goodies](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/159960726218/edenverse-masterpost)!


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